The Coils of Orion
by Richard T. Green
Summary: The crew of the Starship Enterprise encounters a planet whose ravenous appetite for energy, to fuel its advanced culture, pushes it to commit greater and greater crimes as it traverses near Federation Space. About 200 pages.
1. Chapter 1

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**A Brief Word from the Author**

This Star Trek story was inspired by current events and, of course, by the great television series from the late 1960's, created by Gene Roddenberry. I hope it fits in neatly in with those tales of action and romance I enjoyed as a younger man. For some reason, I originally thought this one could go between seasons two and three. But, a year and or two later, I can't for the life of me remember why!

In addition to Mr. Roddenberry, I am also indebted to the great physicist Leonard Susskind, and his plain-spoken book _The Black Hole Wars, _for an idea that appears in the second half of this story. However, Dr. Susskind should not take any blame for anything I've drunkenly extrapolated here, based on his theorizing.

The Orions, themselves, do not appear until after this "Susskind event" unfolds. The story focuses on a region of space currently obscured to us, beyond the constellation of Orion. If we could somehow detect it from Earth right here in the present day, that faraway star cluster and its interfering string of black holes (known as "the Pocket") would subjectively appear to be "inside" the body of Orion, but only from our own current galactic position.

Pronunciation Note: Chilion, the name of the main planet in this story, may be pronounced like the French "_chez lyon._" Or, as you like it.

**Richard T. Green**

**Copyright 2012**

**All Rights Reserved**

**The Coils of Orion**

**By Richard T. Green**

**Prologue**

"Tell me, Mr. Spock: what does your scientific brain make of this?" It was Doctor McCoy, issuing a playful challenge, as he stepped up behind the first officer on the bridge of the USS _Enterprise_.

The unflappable Vulcan spun his chair toward the ship's surgeon, to see the doctor holding an out-dated medical scanner in his hand.

"It would appear to be a vintage derma-spectragraph, mostly likely produced in the laboratories on one of Rigel III's outer moons, Doctor. The third moon, if I'm not mistaken," he added with a dash of confidence, to indicate he very likely was _not _mistaken.

"Correct, Mr. Spock," McCoy said, almost jerking it back near his heart, as the first officer reached for it. "But do you know what happens when you pass it over the view of that star-system over there?" He waved his hand with a little flourish toward the main viewscreen and, particularly, toward a handful of sparkling, distant suns off to the upper left of the big visual display. Meanwhile, to the doctor's left, and down a step or two, Captain James T. Kirk had just signed the daily logs and was watching as the doctor prepared to make his (apparently) shocking revelation.

"I believe you would find a series of energy beams, of varying color and intensity, flashing in a seemingly random pattern, between two points, roughly one-fiftieth of a light year apart from one another."

Now it was Dr. McCoy who looked shocked, though for only the briefest fraction of a second.

"All right," he said, grumbling at the Vulcan's acuity. "So apparently I'm _not_ the only one on board with an old derma-scanner and a little bit of time on their hands!" He turned to the captain now, his magic trick now ruined by his acerbic audience.

"Let's have a look, Bones," Kirk said, to salve the doctor's wounded pride.

McCoy slapped the scanner into Kirk's hands, and folded his arms across his chest. Kirk opened up one little metallic arm from the tubular device, creating a ninety-degree angle out of the hinged tool, like an Oriental fan, minus the paper and ribs. The unfolding action, in turn, activated a field of energy designed to detect radiation contamination on flesh. And when Kirk lifted the elbow-shaped little curiosity toward the main viewscreen, he saw it too: flickering, faraway rays of energy, like colored spot-lights silently flaring across the darkness.

"Interesting," Kirk said, barely able to raise his enthusiasm to match his description. From all appearances, the intermittent rays could have been nothing more than a flurry of comet tails, flickering through a flaw in the gravitational landscape.

"Quite possibly _very_ interesting," Spock admitted, warming to the topic at hand, and entirely oblivious to the captain's ironic tone. He stood now, as if to begin a lecture, and McCoy rolled his eyes in a display of prefabricated boredom, resting one arm against the red railing that circled the inner-section of the command deck. Once again, he'd given the Vulcan too much play on the line, and the science officer was off and running on some wild tangent. Or so it seemed.

Spock adjusted the science-station controls, and the view on the big screen wavered to enlarge the sector in question, filtered to emphasize those very distant colored searchlights. He spread his orange-tinted fingers, as if to gather them into his hands, though they were still hundreds of light-years away. "There is a theory, never proven, that advanced civilizations might use such energy 'fans' as a form of communication—while remaining hidden to distant onlookers. Not unlike the mating display of your Earth peacock."

"Any record of a civilization out there?" Kirk was momentarily distracted by a yeoman needing his signature.

"None to date," the Vulcan said, with an almost self-satisfied simplicity: as if completing a wily feat of courtroom tactics before his captain and judge. And now, the science officer adopted a look of simple waiting, for Jim Kirk was left with only one "logical" option.

"All right," the captain said, scratching an eyebrow, convinced only that his science officer was convinced, and nothing more. "Mr. Sulu, lay in a course: follow that… mating signal." He glanced at McCoy, at his right shoulder, to share a chuckle over the description. But, to Kirk's surprise, McCoy suddenly seemed very uncomfortable, as if his mood had chilled in an instant.

"Aye, sir, course computed and laid in," the helmsman said.

"Well, I can't sit around here staring out the window all day with the rest of you," the surgeon grumbled, collecting the old medical scanner from the captain, and tapping the instrument like a riding crop against his black slacks as he walked back to the turbolift. The red doors whipped open with the usual startling efficiency, then closed just as quickly once he'd stepped inside and grabbed a safety-rail.

"Warp factor three, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said, forgetting all about Dr. McCoy's sudden moodiness. And a second later the almost frightening thrum of the anti-matter drive boomed through the ship.

Two ship's days passed in relative quiet, as they sped toward the center of that ghostly, flickering plumage. Doctor McCoy conducted an emergency appendectomy on a young security guard; and Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott came no closer in his quest to balancing the warp-drive engines to absolute perfection. But on the morning of the day they would enter an unknown empire, there came an early buzzing at Jim Kirk's cabin door. He threw his legs out over the edge of his bunk, and began pulling on his boots.

"Come," he said, and the cabin door snapped open, revealing Dr. McCoy: his hands now awkwardly behind his back.

"What is it, Bones?"

"Mind if I come in?" He asked, awkwardly, as if he hadn't been invited already. Out in the curving corridor of deck five, crewmembers passed by, and a spill of pink and yellow light glowed on the bulkhead behind him, to simulate the dawn of another day.

Kirk was surprised by the air of formality in the doctor's manner. He gestured slightly with his head, as if to say _"get in here!"_

A moment later, both men were seated on the office-side of the captain's quarters; and still, McCoy was barely able to look him in the eye. Now feeling more than slightly annoyed, Kirk leaned forward to grab two solid memory chips which the doctor shuffled one over the other, again and again in his hand.

"Let me explain, Jim," McCoy said, pulling the two nearly palm-sized tablets away, toward his edge of the little table.

Whatever this was about, it was already taking twice as long as it should, the captain told himself.

"I've been trying to find a good time to tell you. And, well, there is no good time," the chief medical officer mumbled, turning the two little plates over in his hand. They were the size of very expensive casino chips and, indeed, he looked as though he were about to throw his entire life's savings on the table.

"Bones, just spit it out."

"Orders from Starfleet," the doctor said, mumbling again. "It seems there've been some… complaints."

"Complaints? About what?" Now Kirk was in full management mode, leaning forward, analytically.

"About you!"

"About me?" Kirk repeated, leaning back. He hadn't been captain long enough for there to be any complaints, or so he thought.

"Apparently," McCoy sighed, "there were some… wild oats sewn, in the Academy, and on your early training missions."

"Wild oats? Bones, I'm a captain, not Johnny Appleseed."

"That's not funny," the doctor said, taking refuge in his own small sense of propriety. "Starfleet is telling me to change your hormonal profile. And, though I've resisted, they're getting pretty stiff about it!"

Now it was Kirk's turn to look as if McCoy had made a very poor joke.

"I'm serious, Jim," the physician added. "They think that if I can't 'manage-down' your testosterone level, you just might do some harm to… Federation stability. Or something."

Kirk stared at the chips in McCoy's hand, and then into the doctor's eyes, hoping it was all a joke of some kind. Of course, he'd had some wonderful times with some amazing women—but he could hardly imagine that any of that had led to anything serious or permanent, or…

"Complaints… of what nature?" was all he could think to say, to fill the increasingly awkward silence.

"Jim, you know what I mean. It comes down to this," McCoy said, spreading the two computer plaques apart, one in each hand, as if weighing two equally unpleasant alternatives: "Number one, we start giving you hormonal therapies to… well, help you become… more _harmless _to the native populations, from week to week, or month to month."

"To avoid…" Kirk was searching for words, "altering the… lines of succession, whenever some… ravishing young princesses wanders by?"

"Exactly," McCoy said, too loudly, but only slightly relieved. "Either that, or, well… you just avoid falling in love, or having any kind of romance, with any strange woman you meet, who happens to find you charming or attractive, or whatever you want to call it."

Now, neither man could think of anything to say, to break the awful silence.

"Has the whole Universe gone crazy?" Kirk said, at last.

"Jim," McCoy leaned back, with a sigh. "Have you ever seen Puccini's _Madame Butterfly_?"

"Is that the one where… the priestess kills her children to get even with her lover?"

"No, that's _Medea. _Or _Norma_. Or both. Hell, I don't know. In _Madame Butterfly_," the doctor explained, slowing himself down with great effort, trying to make his point as clearly as possible, without scandalizing his captain beyond all endurance, "in this one, the beautiful Asian girl has the child of a sea captain, from a faraway land. And she dreams of him coming back someday, but he never does. And so she kills herself!"

"Wait… Beautiful young women are… killing themselves over me?" Kirk would have never considered such a thing. He didn't know whether to be frightened, or flattered in the most horrifying way, or both.

"No, but what Starfleet is saying is that what you, personally—what _you_- expect out of a brief encounter may be completely different from what some king's nice young daughter expects. And _that's _what they're scared of!"

"I don't know what to say!"

"Jim," McCoy said, conscious that they were both becoming exasperated, and he stood up to go. "They've given me two more weeks to get the situation under control." And, to add insult to injury, he seemed to pat his inner thigh just once, when he said "situation," as he turned to leave.

"I've never heard of such a thing," Kirk said, folding his arms again over his muscular chest.

"Well, I didn't have to tell you at all," McCoy brayed, possibly annoyed with himself now. "I could have just put it in with your annual shots, and you'd never even know it! But then you'd be weeping! And moody! And feeling helpless all the time! And who wants a starship captain like that?"

With that, he marched out into the corridor and was gone, leaving Jim Kirk alone with his thoughts. He remembered the terrible sadness that followed the break-up with Carol Marcus, and the horrendous theatrics that ended his relationship with the brilliant exo-archeologist, Janice Lester. It seemed that love among his own kind had only led him into pain and suffering. But it wasn't long before his reverie was broken by the comm panel on his little cabin desk.

"Kirk here."

"Something on our scanners," came the voice of the ever-alert Mr. Spock. "Request you return to the command deck at once."

"On my way," the captain said, leaving his own dreams and private heartbreaks behind closed doors: some of them, perhaps, forever.

"What is it, Spock?" he demanded, as the Vulcan climbed out of the center-seat, and Kirk dropped in, in a now-familiar exchange. The red alert had begun sounding while Kirk was in the turbolift coming up from deck five, and he was still gritting his teeth together over the momentary helplessness in the little capsule.

"Subspace signal, heavily decayed: perhaps the trace of a mayday, coming from a region of collapsed stars dead ahead."

"Hailing frequencies?" Kirk said, leaning forward in the center-seat, with his elbow on his thigh, and his jaw resting uneasily on the palm of his hand like Rodin's famous sculpture.

"No response, Captain," the communications officer, Lt. Uhura, said immediately. She kept her eyes on the computer readouts before her, impulsively twisting a silver ear-piece against the side of her head with one hand, and trying to boost the signal's strength with the other.

From just ahead of the captain, on the helmsman's panel, a dozen of the lights on the navigator's station suddenly shifted to a uniformly menacing red glow.

"Gravity beam," Mr. Chekov warned, his voice climbing at least an octave. Sulu, to his left, hastily took the warp-drive off-line, and the engines' whine zoomed down along a scale from tenor to bass in less than two seconds.

"Shields," Kirk said, though it was on everyone's minds at once.

And with that, the starship was knocked off course: zinging sideways across the sky like a wood chip from a saw. The captain found himself thrust to the deck and gasping for breath under some immense, invisible weight. Another moment passed, and his chest was being crushed. Soon he could feel the arteries and veins in his neck straining as a cruel pain wrenched every joint in his body. His eyes felt as if they were being crushed like cooked tomatoes, though he could still see his fellow crewmen in similar straits.

Around the bridge, the standard bright lights flickered and died. Gradually, they came back on: first the red alert flashers in the darkness; and then the computerized panels all around, and finally the overhead lights. People were picking each other up, and finally looking out through the main viewer to see what, exactly, had happened.

"Report, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, his head aching. He turned to see that his science officer was studying the readouts with an unexpected mixture of amazement and dismay.

"The source of attack appears to be coming from the far edge of an accretion disc, beyond one of the larger black holes in the region."

"Target for response, fire when ready," Kirk said, not bothering to see if the warm trickle down his right temple was blood, or merely sweat.

"Phasers on target," Sulu said, his fingers poised on the Duotronic triggers.

"Fire."

The rough warble of phaser fire echoed through the upper decks, and trails of brilliant blue light curved up and across a distant, blinding white vortex of energy to a point somewhere beyond. A moment passed.

"Computers score multiple hits, Captain," Sulu said, though he could only go by the confirmation lights at his fingertips.

"Damage reports," Kirk said, smoothing his tunic, and giving himself a second to calm down.

"Minor damage to port nacelle, with partial fracturing of shields four and five," Uhura recited, listening to the multiple voices coming through her board, all at once. "Otherwise, just assorted bumps and bruises, sir."

"Anything else on that mayday, Spock?"

"Negative. Interference too severe from the collapsed star and the friction maelstrom."

Kirk put his thumb and forefinger to his lips, as if he were thinking about whistling a warning.

"Mr. Sulu, put phasers on hold and take us in closer," the captain said, his desire to protect the ship rubbing against his own curiosity, like a razor against a strop. The galling wail of the highest alert had finally silenced itself, though the bright red warning lights pulsed off and on around the bridge.

After a few moments of tense silence, Lt. Uhura threw a few switches on the communications console and called out:

"Mayday confirmed, image on screen."

Sure enough, on the outer edge of the brilliant disk of energy surrounding an invisible black hole, the glint of some distant, metallic surface shone: its own warp engines pulsing erratically against the pull of an irresistible gravity-well.

"Vessel is the _Amphora_, a tourist cruise-ship of Orion registry. Capacity of 250 civilians; crew of sixty-one," Spock recited, as if interpreting the computer beeps and buzzes as they skipped through the static of the local line of collapsed stars.

"They're not responding to our hail, sir," Uhura said, as if in answer to Kirk's next question.

"Anything on the source of those earlier communication beacons?" he demanded, recalling the beams of peacock plumage.

"Signal beacons emanate from four positions in the region," Spock called out. "However, it appears the main source is out in deep space, bearing four-one-point-six mark one-one-point-oh-five."

"Get us in tractor-beam range of that ship," Kirk said, even as he drew up an approximate star-map of the region in his head.

"Aye, sir," Sulu said, still slightly rattled from the strange attack. Gradually, the great pleasure vessel on the edge of the blinding pinwheel of light grew larger on the screen.

"Her engines are failing," Spock announced from Kirk's right, and all eyes turned to the leviathan cruise-liner, just beginning to tumble toward an eternal pit.

"Tractor beams," Kirk said.

"Still out of range," Chekov, the helmsman replied. They were chasing the other ship now, as it tumbled along in the coils of hot gasses and molten rock, skimming the surface of the brilliant, quasar-like disk. Then the _Amphora _was rolling deeper into folds of spiraling plasma, melted away by ferocious energies, till even its trail of jagged turbulence had blurred into the whirlpool, speeding up to white-heat as everything streamed around and around to the singularity at the center.

"She's gone," Spock said. And all of that had been in vain.

"Get us clear, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, scrubbing an expression of dismay from his lips with one hand, while the other hand still hung in the air in a farewell gesture, or as if he might still reach out and stop what had already happened.

"Aye, sir."

The _Enterprise_ rose up from the outermost edges of the blinding white shroud, and away to a safe distance.

"Spock: analysis?"

"We were subjected to some sort of focused gravitational field, unknown to our science," the Vulcan began, seated now. "Evidently, the _Amphora _became trapped on the edge of that accretion disk, circling its collapsed star. Though, whether this was an unexpected hazard, or somehow related to the artificial gravity burst- or due to some entirely different cause- will require further analysis." He seemed to be cautioning his fellow officers from jumping to any conclusions.

"Scan the region for other vessels," Kirk ordered, a hard edge coming into his voice.

"There were two small tug ships in the vicinity of the cruise ship, Keptin, but I have lost the reading," Chekov said, aloud.

"Play back the moments before her engines went," Kirk demanded quietly.

"On screen," Chekov replied. "Magnify to 100," he added, brushing a fingertip against a light panel at his station.

They seemed to leap back in time now, into the moments when the _Amphora _was still within reach, the magnification seeming to taunt them, as if they could easily have saved her, had they only tried harder. Once again, tantalizingly, they could see her. And just beyond, a pair of tiny alien tugboats: each of those, very dark and pointed at one end.

Chekov touched a small light panel and the image grew before them again.

"Take us around to the source of the attack, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, though he was still mystified on all counts.

"Aye, Captain." The warp engines thrummed to life again, peeling them from the edge of the blinding whirlwind, and high over the strange blackness in its center, till the white cyclone of energy was visible below them like a vast, inscrutable eye.

**Chapter One**

Minutes later they came upon the wreckage of a stellar outpost, which had been blasted to chunks by the ship's phasers. The _Enterprise _floated above the ruins in silent triumph, while the frozen slag spread farther and farther, against the brilliant light behind them.

"What was a cruise vesseldoing out here in the first place," Kirk wondered. On the bridge, activity continued as signals were sent out from communications, and the helmsman scanned for signs of approaching vessels. Ensigns and yeomen generally took the long-way around, rather than interrupt the captain's fixed gaze across the bridge, at the main screen.

"Go to yellow alert," he said, at last, though he half-expected some new crushing gravity field to hit, as soon as their guard was down. When it appeared that Fate was not sufficiently tempted, Kirk swiveled his command chair to watch the shapely Lt. Uhura, lost in the sound of distant space-noise, twisting her earpiece as if the persistent act of pushing it farther into her shell-like ear might reveal some faint, organized message. Her beautiful brow was furrowed slightly but, from her expression, Kirk knew that whatever attracted the cruise ship was still in hiding.

"_Amphora_ was listed as missing from her quadrant one solar year ago," Mr. Spock said. "Search turned up no sign of her, along her usual routes."

"And this close," Kirk said, completing the equation, "to a black hole, sucking up all transmissions."

"Correct."

"Analysis of… what's left of that outpost?"

Now, Spock stood again, as if called to recite in class.

"This section," he said, holding his hand out toward the largest bit of wreckage tumbling across the big screen, "appears to have been some sort of cannon, or lensing device. Possibly the source of that gravitational energy beam." Kirk ran his eyes across a dark, ridge-stepped cylinder, slowly twisting end over end, reflecting the brilliance of the energy whirlpool.

"Sensors indicate these other pieces were most likely the control center."

Kirk crossed his boots at the ankles, then uncrossed them again, as if he might jump up at any moment to get to the bottom of this.

"We were too far, at the time of the skirmish," Spock explained, turning back to his computer banks, "to ascertain the precise location of the outpost's creators. However, it should be possible to determine an approximate location, given what appears to be the remains of… a remarkably clear transmission trail, through the common gases." The Vulcan looked surprised, at the remains of a hot plasma trail, burned through the interstellar dust.

"Transferring data to helm," he said, at last, and turned to face the captain.

"Already traced. On screen," Chekov said, with a hint of triumph in his voice. A computer-enhanced image of a ghostly tunnel stretched away, out into empty space.

"Report on the other end of that trail," Kirk said aloud, to no one in particular.

"No sign of a solar system," Spock began, having turned back to his console, "but I am getting readings of a small, planet-like body: less than point five two three light years, heading 290.135. Readings suggest it is Class M, and may be the source of those fanned-shaped signal beams, as well."

"All right," Kirk said quietly. "Helm, lay in a course, Mr. Sulu, give us warp factor… one." Just enough time, he supposed, to get a few readings as they approached, and to possibly have a little briefing room action on the subject…

And, indeed, an hour later the deck six meeting began, with Engineer Scott and the bridge crew who witnessed the initial encounter, and a beautiful yeoman at the computer on the short end of the table. A moment later came Dr. McCoy. No one seemed to notice that his eyes, and the captains, did not exactly meet at any point in the session.

"All right," the captain said, informally landing both palms flat against the table-top. "What have we got?"

"The planet ahead has already sent out a squadron of drone vessels, to intercept us," Spock began, and the matching image appeared on the screens in the center of the table: almost invisible black ships, triangular, pointed at the prow. "They appear to be armed with conventional explosives, and we should encounter them within the hour."

"Any sign of light-speed capability?"

"Negative."

"We beamed aboard some of the wreckage of that gravity weapon," Scotty said now, "but it'll take some work to sort it all out."

"Any connection between it and the _Amphora_?"

"None thus far," Spock replied.

But, to Kirk's left, Mr. Sulu seemed to jerk physically, in his shoulders, ever so slightly.

"What is it, Sulu?"

The navigator seemed strangely embarrassed, as if he already knew his argument wouldn't withstand scientific rigor. He even seemed to disbelieve it, himself.

"I can't quite put it into words," Sulu said, one hand coming up involuntarily to block the inevitable barrage of questions. "But in the 19th Century on Earth, where I grew up, there was something called 'gold fever,' with thousands and thousands of people flooding in to the California region from all over the world, to scour the land for what were once precious metals."

"Go on," Kirk said.

"I know this sounds… odd," he said, as his hand finally came down, decisively, almost like a wood-ax, "but it reminds me of one of the… almost desperate ways they used, when they would go panning for golden nuggets, in streams of river water."

Now, a silence fell over the length of the long table, till all that was left was the steady chatter of officers' reports humming through small speaker grills, back and forth between decks.

"Explain," Kirk said quietly, assessing Sulu's awkward, searching expression.

"Well, they were called "forty-niners," because of the year of the height of gold fever. But to really go through the river beds, and the creek beds, and search through every pebble for wealth, they had to divert the nearly all of the fresh water away, to get in and search for the nuggets."

Now, at the end of the table, Mr. Spock jerked back slightly, as well—as if he could already follow the thread of Sulu's seemingly quaint history lesson.

"The prospectors built temporary, artificial river paths, or 'flumes,' of wood around their panning beds, so they could go through every pebble and stone, by hand, to extract the bits of gold- without the constant interference of the rushing river currents."

More silence followed, and they gradually became aware of the constant thrum of the ship's mighty warp engines, much larger, but remarkably similar in design, to those of the _Amphora_.

"It might be," Sulu finally said, "that the _Amphora _was not just 'accidentally' caught on the edge of that energy whirlpool."

"Mr. Sulu," the chief engineer blurted out, "are ye sayin' that someone used her warp drive just to bend the gravity around a black hole? To siphon off the plasma energy? And when they'd burned up her engines? Destroyed them in over-use, and then just threw her away?" Scotty sputtered, outraged.

Now it was Spock's turn to speak up; though he, like the others, was also jarred by what Sulu seemed to be saying. "The plasma whirlpools that surround the inner orbits of collapsed stars are among the most powerful naturally occurring energy sources we know," the Vulcan said, without a flinch. "And, in spite of the obvious danger, even a small set of warp engines operating at one side of the disc could shift the center of gravity, even slightly, to allow a standard ramjet to harvest the swirling plasma closer tothe inner edge of the vortex. One need only position the warp drive ship as close as possible to the event horizon, without crossing that invisible line, and to create Cochran distortions to fore and aft."

"And beam the raw plasma energy away, to wherever they needed it." Kirk wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow.

"But wouldn't they lose a substantial amount of energy just shooting it back to their home world?" It was Dr. McCoy, looking puzzled.

"Not necessarily," Spock said, becoming a bit more animated, as he contemplated the grand mechanics of the scheme. "The super-heated plasma nearest the singularity would already be in its simplest beaming state. They would only need to overcome the wear and tear on their machinery. And, it would seem, they have already accomplished this."

"But if they already have a gravity beam technology to attack us, what do they need with warp drive?" Kirk asked, trying to reason from his own warrior's logic.

"Unknown," Spock replied. "It may be that the beam that hit us was highly focused, though much less powerful, and harder to sustain."

"It seemed powerful enough, the first time," Scotty said, uncomfortably.

Jim Kirk glanced around the long table, to see if anyone had anything beyond mere speculation to offer. "Scotty, I need a report on that wreckage. It might keep us from ending up… like _Amphora_."

"Aye, Captain," the engineer sighed, in grim agreement.

Later that shift, Kirk was back in the command chair as they approached the lonely planet ahead, and the squadron of alien attack vessels. But, till they met, he was thinking about the girls he'd known in Starfleet, and on training missions: Carol, Janice, and Ruth. And, well, several others who could hardly claim to have been taken advantage of. Carol was wonderful, but all business (though they nearly married); Janice was the most exciting, but with warp-driven ambitions; and Ruth was just all good. Should he just send every one of them a box of chocolates and dozen roses and hope that made everything all right again?

He supposed it could have been Janice Lester that had raised doubts in the minds of Starfleet's internal security experts, about his romantic exploits. She was the one with the fiercest edge, the one with the burning ambition to gain a captaincy for herself. But anything she might say would surely be colored by her own personality profile from the Academy. And she was off, at last word, excavating the glory of some ancient civilization or other, on the other end of Federation space.

And then, gradually, a vision began to haunt him, of himself but different: looking strangely weak, yet with something lurking, submerged deep within his own hazel eyes: like a trapped animal, hiding in the shadows. And it was that elusive, wildness behind a fearful mask that made it clear: this is how one looks under chemical castration. He would become like some loose, live-wire, dangling near a tantalizing, glittering ocean: dimly aware of the remote opportunity to make explosive contact, held back only by the intervention of an invisible sea breeze—or, in this case, the will of Starfleet. For him, at the moment, it seemed worse than any insane-asylum, worse than the stocks in a public square. Maybe he wouldn't feel this way in twenty years but, that love of life, of adventure, of women, of romance, was part of what had made him the youngest Starship captain in the fleet in the first place. What would become of him if they started tinkering with his own personal chemistry? How much of him would slowly fade away?

"Captain," came a sultry feminine voice, over his right shoulder. It was the doe-eyed Uhura.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"We're being scanned by the planet ahead," she said.

"No hail, yet," Kirk said, remembering the _Amphora_. But he was also aware that his first reaction to this new world was one of wariness, perhaps beyond what the merely military situation seemed to call for.

Besides, how much more incredible could the next young alien woman possibly be? Hadn't he tasted the lips of the most beautiful women in the galaxy already? Hadn't he learned to find any other impossible joys, beyond the embrace of a loving woman? He uncrossed his legs, and tried to think of something more mundane.

"Receiving a hail now, Captain," Uhura said, without surprise, her elegant dark fingers poised on glowing buttons on the communications console.

"On screen," Kirk said, sitting up straight now.

And there, emerging from a ripple of the glittering starscape, appeared a lovely but vaguely perplexed face on the main viewscreen.

"This is Captain James T. Kirk, of the Starship _Enterprise_," he said at last. We are investigating the… loss… of the Federation passenger vessel _Amphora_. Requesting clearance for orbit."

After a brief moment, the beautiful young woman glanced down, and then calmly, directly, into the bridge of the _Enterprise_. Her eyes were large and dark, impossibly peaceful and soft in appearance, though penetrating, above an almost child-like nose and chin. An elaborate, tall, braided hairdo leaned back, and made her face seem even smaller, though her eyes were still the most striking of all of her features: like vast midnight hemispheres, surrounded by swirling white. When she spoke, her voice was husky, warm and gracious, though in a somewhat tentative way. And she seemed to wince slightly, as if the weight of her ornate beehive hairdo might be causing her some sort of headache.

"This is Allena, first daughter of the most honored and departed King Jonoff. We are pleased to welcome your vessel, Captain James T. Kirk. However," she said, pausing as if quietly interrupted by some unseen advisor, "due to the present distress of our people… we may be forced to limit, somewhat, your privileges as a visiting dignitary."

"Understood," Kirk said, though of course he didn't really understand at all, yet. "We… look forward… to meeting with you in person." Somehow, he worried that last phrase, "in person," might sound bad in any future medical hearings he might endure, over this latest beauty to cross his path. But at the same time, he was strangely excited and (for the moment), he no longer cared about his own particular future. Was this his drug, somehow? The prospect of romance? And was this rush of excitement the way his body called out now, for its next dose?

A few hours later, the _Enterprise _had crossed the last few stars, slowing to sub-light speed, and the alien sortie had taken up escort positions, as if pretending dominance over the much larger vessel that now came in to orbit. Ahead lay a strangely symmetrical world, where forests and patchwork crops were interrupted at regular intervals by great hexagonal oceans, creating the impression of a planet-sized dodecahedron, or perhaps a very elaborate green and blue soccer ball, casually dusted with white and swirling clouds. A large, close-orbiting moon seemed to glow like an artificial sun—as if they never had a Copernicus to tell them the truth about the proper order of planets, going around their stars.

On closer inspection, Jim Kirk began to see a vast, natural desert in the southern hemisphere, and that some of the oceans, emerging from the night-side of the planet, seemed to be dry: white hexagonal deserts themselves, tinged with some alien algae, while others had a soft rusty appearance as if they'd been dead for many years. But each one was identical in size to each glittering blue hexagonal ocean in the planetary spin, beneath that glowing moon.

Mr. Spock broke the silence, to Kirk's right, with a tone of mild surprise in his voice.

"Our sensors indicate this is a rogue planet, Captain. Or, a hyper-velocity runaway."

"Explain."

The Vulcan drew a deep breath, as if the matter would require more than a little consideration. "Based on their speed, nearly eighteen million miles per hour, and the obviously contrived nature of their waterways and oceans, it would appear that they have purposely broken free of their original sun, crossing space from one of the neighboring systems, using nearby stars for repeated slingshot events."

Kirk felt he understood, but glanced back at Spock, and then at the viewscreen, once again, as if for corroboration.

"Essential maneuverability seems to come from the calculated act of juggling water between oceans. It has long been known," the Vulcan continued, "that even a small, man-made dam for hydroelectric energy can subtly change the orbit of an entire planet. I would suggest, in advance of further study, that they have devised a means of escaping their original solar neighborhood, using changes in mass and dynamics, as their means of transport."

"But without a sun of their own, to take with them?"

"Sensors indicate the moon-like object in orbit is radiating sufficient energy to maintain life on the planet," Spock noted, after glancing back at his computer station.

"And these artificial oceans," Kirk said, trying to count their numbers on the sphere ahead, "are each thousands of times larger than a standard hydroelectric dam."

"Indeed. Each one is nearly three point seven one nine two eight thousand times the size a normal hydroelectric facility, required to power a standard-sized city and its surrounding environs. And it appears there are twenty-two of them, in all. By filling or draining them in various combinations," Spock shrugged, "they could alter their path through space. Assuming they can also manipulate the orbit of their moon, with the aid of their gravity beams, and perhaps through other technology we have not yet detected, it may be a relatively simple matter for them to use their entire world as a means of interstellar transport." Spock raised a quizzical eyebrow at the prospect.

Now Kirk leaned back, at last, and took a deep breath at the sheer audacity of the scheme. "By shifting the oceans, pumping them from one side of their world to the other? Shifting that tremendous weight and mass…" Kirk stopped, dumbfounded at the notion. "But why?" he half-mumbled.

"A cursory examination of the star they seem to have fled suggests that it is now at the end of its most productive, stable cycle. And, as we have seen, there are at least seven major black holes in the region, which may have given them pause, as well."

"An entire civilization, re-directing itself through the dark—and the cold," Kirk wondered, raising one hand up to his lower lip, to stop a strange tingling.

"However," Spock interrupted, "if Mr. Sulu is correct in his theory of a 'gravity flume,' they may be able to transit independently for some considerable amount of time, perhaps even centuries, receiving the plasma energy harvested from accretion discs around the most active singularities, nearby. In effect, it could be their entire source of external energies. Depending on the height of their technologies."

"As long as they also have a warp drive ship, to bend the gravity around the hole," Kirk nodded, even as something dark and angry shifted in his own soul, at the greedy sacrifice of the _Amphora_. "Mr. Spock, get me a landing party, in the transporter room."

"Aye, sir," the Vulcan nodded, and Kirk's athletic form disappeared in the turbolift, opposite the view of the strange rogue planet, with those mathematically perfect oceans.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Two**

"_The present distress." _

The young alien woman's phrase echoed in his mind as Kirk and the others assembled on the transporter pads, the two security men, Lieutenants Michaels and Johansen, stepping all the way to be back of the chamber: one curly haired and rangy, but almost identical in height to the other: Johansen, with tousled blond-hair and almost impossibly broad shoulders.

Also settling themselves on the pads, flanking the captain, were Mr. Spock, Lt. Riley, and Yeoman Tamura. And, in a moment, they dissolved into gold and star-like orbs before those seemed to evaporate in mid-air as well, as a technician worked the controls across the room.

For the landing party, only an imperceptible moment had passed before they rematerialized: making planetfall on a broad city street. But as they turned "outwards" from their original formation, they could see the ruination on all sides. Great buildings lay in heaps, like rotten fruit dropped from even greater, invisible trees high above; though many buildings still seemed to hover high up in the sky. The crewmen's tricorders began warbling in the desolate air and echoed faintly off the tilting, smashed remains of steel and glass. Smoke or steam poured out of the odd broken window or half-tilted vent on a few of the semi-flattened buildings, lending an unexpected battlefield mood to the quiet surroundings.

Kirk looked up at the floating skyscrapers, like old-fashioned hypodermic needles; others flat and segmented, like metallic, glinting clouds. Tiny flying cars drifted around them, under a soft pink sky.

Just then, they heard the familiar humming buzz of the transporter beams again. It started (as always) as a sort of "inner-ear" sensation, and developed into a more audible, shimmering hiss, with vaguely mechanical reverberations, and the landing party members turned to watch as one more crewman materialized nearby, in the middle of the vacant street. Untold motes of light assembled themselves into the shape of Dr. McCoy, already smiling, almost apologetically.

"Well, don't look so surprised, Captain," the chief medical officer said, spreading his arms in an amiable shrug. "You know how much I love to have my very existence converted into high-energy signals, and reassembled, hundreds of miles away. Makes me feel glad to be alive," he said, clasping his hands together with a shiver of counterfeit exuberance.

Kirk nodded, smiling in spite of himself. For it suddenly seemed his old friend would chaperone him on this mission, wanted or not. He wondered if the good doctor had also happened to see the same dewy-eyed young princess on the viewscreens on board the _Enterprise_. And if McCoy's own mind was racing to the same, inevitable conclusion, with a very different outcome in mind. The doctor began surveying the towering buildings, floating high above them.

"They built their castles in the air," he said, still jovially, staring upward. But even his good nature evaporated when they heard a muffled, booming crash some blocks away. Instantly the group turned, as one, to follow the thunderous sound. Their quick walk became a run, as they heard the loud creaking and groaning of metals and once-weightless alien machinery grinding and sighing into a chaotic mountain in the distance: reduced to wreckage.

Their path was complicated by the ruins of other buildings that had already plummeted to earth in likewise fashion, one by one: some cold and silent heaps; other, once proud constructions now in flames, and smoke still crackling through the shadows deep inside the wreckage. Mountain after mountain of collapse spread to the horizon, like boney jellyfish mercilessly washed ashore. Around them, the lawns and parks were perfectly manicured, and they could see elaborate glades and gardens, though many of these were also turned to grotesque shipwreck scenes, where glittering aspirations had turned to ash. And yet, hundreds more of these buildings still hovered up there, like so many condemned men on their own invisible gallows, waiting for the trapdoors to swing wide.

Finally they came upon the latest wreckage down in the streets and parks. The scene was almost like a construction site, with hovering cranes and searchlights piercing the shadows inside, and men in long protective coats and helmets shouting to one another, as they clambered into the settling heap of pillars and rubble. In a moment, Kirk became aware of another hovering craft nearby, with a small group of somber looking government types observing in silence.

"_Stand back from the wreckage," _a voice boomed, as the landing party approached, tricorders held out and scanning for survivors.

"We've come to help," Kirk shouted back, in the glare of one of the spotlights. The natives on the ground seemed to ignore him, as their own rescue crews gingerly climbed across the girders and the broken façade of the scene.

Now a force-field of some kind began pushing them back, a sort of cow-catcher of light, a fan of wavering beams of green and yellow and blue that shoved them almost invisibly back across the square, away from the devastation. The dancing bars of light flickered between them and the local rescuers, though Kirk attempted to put his hand through now and then, to test the field's strength.

"Don't _do_ that," McCoy complained, watching as Kirk blew on his pink, irradiated hands. The doctor found a little burnished steel canister in his kit, and sprayed a fine mist over the injured skin, though Kirk became impatient again, shouting his title and name, and invoking the names of the Federation and the _Enterprise_, though it certainly didn't seem to stop anyone, even when he repeated his offer of help. Then, at long last, another one of the searchlights was turned from the collapsed building, and toward the landing party.

He repeated his identification again, "I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship _Enterprise_, of the United Federation of Planets," and held out his sun burnt hands for emphasis, or a show of harmlessness. Half of being a good starship captain was simply in knowing when to look helpless and non-threatening.

At last, a smaller hovercraft settled down to the landscaped square, away from the force-field. And when the flickering bars of light had vanished, the landing party quietly approached. A hatch opened with a pop and a hiss and, like some kind of combat troopers, two cameramen dashed out, one pointing some kind of insect-like video recording device at the _Enterprise _crewmen, and the second poised half-way between, facing back toward the first, larger hovercraft. Kirk supposed they might be weapons, but from the weird intensity of their owners, like artisans, he guessed something else was at work.

After a minute, an imposing older man emerged from the hatch, grim and self-important, in a fairly dashing gray tunic, which was stiff enough in the front to conceal what appeared to be a round belly. He swung his arms almost casually, though his face had a kind of heavy sense of duty, softened by weight and age.

"What do you want with us?" the older, official-looking man inquired, with a mixture of innocence and sternness that seemed strangely familiar to the captain.

"We've only just arrived, sir," the young starship captain shrugged, looking equally authoritative and concerned, ducking his head respectfully, just a millimeter or so, out of deference to age.

"My name is Exmoor," the older man said, as the cameramen hovered around the group, to get the best angles on what might be construed as a confrontation, though he was suddenly lost in deep reflection, gazing across the square at the latest fallen building, and at the clang of heavy crowbars against structural metal, as rescuers made their way through deep inside. One of the cameramen dutifully turned his recorder to follow Exmoor's gaze.

"What's going on here," Kirk wondered, also captivated by the terrible grandeur of so many heaps of towers all around, in all directions.

"Controlled… demolition," Exmoor sighed, though even those two technical-sounding words seemed fraught with bitterness and irony, as the other cameraman huddled in closer now, focusing on the two men together. "We've lost most of our main source of energy, and some of the older buildings are being brought down now, one by one, to conserve power... to save the newer, more important ones."

"Of course," Kirk nodded, though he was relieved to see that Exmoor hadn't yet made the connection between the _Enterprise _and the plasma-collecting ramjet they'd destroyed earlier in the day.

"Captain," Riley spoke up, offering his tricorder, showing the small screen on it. "These buildings have very little internal support—it's all held up inside by the same energy beams that keep them afloat."

"And that's why," McCoy said quietly, "they collapse like circus tents. Once those internal beams are cut off, the whole thing just goes 'flooey.'"

"You come from far away," Exmoor said, snapping out of his reverie and turning back to the Earthmen at last.

"Yes sir, we do. Are you with the government here, in this… time of distress?" Kirk renewed his respectful attitude again—partly for reasons he couldn't quite place, from a strange feeling of kinship.

"No, no," Exmoor said, seemingly preoccupied. "I have a feelie on the strand, about disasters and emergencies, and we're shooting for our next installment."

"I see," Kirk said, imagining some sort of documentary or historical recording for entertainment purposes. "I suppose I need to talk with the young lady, the ruler Allena."

At the mention of her name, Exmoor seemed vaguely struck, or even stabbed, and the cameramen came in closer. "Do you know Princess Allena?"

Kirk had to shrug and laugh, almost embarrassed, as if he'd unknowingly been conferred a great honor to make men jealous. "Well, we've spoken," he allowed.

"An… exceptional young woman," Exmoor said, suddenly stopping himself (it seemed) from saying much more.

Another hovercraft, larger with bold black stripes around the sides, roared down from above and landed with a complex series of whines and growls. One of Exmoor's cameramen backed away to get a wider shot.

And at this point, a group of six uniformed officers bounded out of the black-striped craft, and took up positions around the landing party. Only Michaels and Johansen noticed Kirk's very small hand gesture, telling them to remain passive. They were quickly herded into the government vehicle, leaving Exmoor and his cameramen alone in the darkening square, looking up as the large craft rose into the air.

Ten minutes later they were deposited in an utterly plain holding room, with two bolted-down metallic benches and some overly-bright white lights hanging from the ceiling. As was usual in these circumstances, they were stripped of their phasers and communicators. But not long after, a single, unarmed guard swung the heavy door open and they were marched out to a balcony where another hovercraft idled just off the edge of the exposed slab, on one of the few buildings that seemed suited to the ground—squat and domed with a flickering force-field, that their new craft slipped through without incident.

"All that's missing is the steward," McCoy said, to no one in particular, and settled into a plush cushioned chair in the passenger compartment. They watched the pink sky turn to mauve and then slowly purple, through the windows all around. Michaels and Johansen had, typically, seated themselves just behind Kirk, as if they were part of some great, muscle-bound throne that followed him around; while the others maneuvered their seats into a nearly circular configuration, like cats, to look over one another's shoulders for any would-be attacker. Their big chairs locked down with a muffled, magnetic _thunk _soon after the craft moved away from the police balcony.

They knew they'd nearly reached their destination when they slowed their horizontal transit, and began zooming upward, toward one of the many still-floating buildings high above. After a minute or so, the tailored forests disappeared below them into a more-or-less uniform green haze, and the blue hexagonal oceans on each horizon were revealed in their precise geometry, in the last rays of the moon, great opalescent gems beneath the distant stars.

"And it's all about to come crashing down," O'Reilly muttered, though Kirk gently admonished the young lieutenant with a glance. The sealed hatch popped open near the pilot's cabin, and they were beckoned forward by another guard in black, with great bandoliers across his chest, like a big red "X."

They walked down an elegant corridor with plush white carpet and soft brown walls, punctuated by glossy white door panels and framed portraits, and flat-screens on the walls. The three-D screens showed what appeared to be exhibits from museums: sculptures, paintings, extravagant jewels, all the riches of a great civilization. And finally, they were ushered in to a long meeting room, with a reflective stone table that would run nearly half the length of the _Enterprise' _shuttle deck. Elderly men sat in plush high-backed chairs along the entire length of the cool stone surface, though only a few glanced at the Starfleet officers when they assembled near the table's end.

"You are Captain Kirk?" a thin, elderly voice said quietly, from the far end.

"Yes sir."

"And," another voice, less thin, less distant, prodded: "your ship destroyed our energy station at Proxima V?"

Kirk nearly shrugged, and tried not to smile. "I'm afraid so, sir. Yes. We were attacked by a gravity beam."

There was an ominous creaking of boardroom chairs now, or perhaps brittle bones, as more and more of the painfully silent old men slowly turned to regard him. He became aware of a pendulum-style clock halfway-down the length of the enormous meeting room, slowly tick-tick-ticking, with such great deliberation, that the next second seemed as if it might always be just slightly in doubt.

"Perhaps, Mr. Kirk," a more robust, growling gentleman began, backing his chair up from the table, clear down at the other end of the long, long room, "you are not entirely aware of the workings of our own empire." And, as he paused to begin some sort of bemused, dumbed-down little speech, the slightly younger older man stood and walked toward the captain.

"My name is Babbington," he said, neatly rounding the length of the table on the blue carpeting. He had a wide, meaty face and slicked-down black hair, and a cool smile that seemed to slice open his mouth like a sharp blade, to reveal his humanoid white teeth.

"You see, Captain," he said, glancing down amiably, "your ship steers from bright star to bright star, navigating its portion of the galaxy, from point to point. While we, as a… whole planet, do much the same thing: steering from dark star to dark star, as we go."

"I understand that, sir," Kirk said, aware that his science officer had shifted uneasily, to his right.

"And now, of course," Babbington resumed, "you've put us in a very serious position, with the loss of our ramjet."

"May I enquire," Kirk said, striving to maintain the polite mood, "as to the fate of the passengers and crew of the cruise ship _Amhora_?"

"They're all safe, perfectly safe, I assure you, Captain," Babbington smiled, with just a trace of impatience. "But as you've undoubtedly seen, we're suddenly having to demolish dozens of our own floating structures, merely to conserve energy. It's quite a terrible, and loathsome thing to us, I can assure you."

"And as to the fate of the _Amphora_," Kirk said, finding it harder and harder to keep this a conversation, and not a shouting match, "I would like to secure immediate passage back to Orion for her full compliment."

"One thing at a time, captain," Babbington replied, his voice growing very quiet now. "We have suffered the loss of a staggering number of properties—"

"I beg your pardon, sir," Spock interrupted, now, "but we were informed these were older structures that were largely unused at the present time."

Babbington gave an odd little jump, as if he'd suffered a minor electrical shock, or equally small outrage, but tried to adopt a conciliatory attitude in his response, nevertheless. "That's as may be, Mister…"

There was the usual awkward pause as the least human-looking man in the room drew the mild reproof of the rulers of this strange new world.

"Spock."

"Mr. Spock. Yes. But the fact remains that our planet is following an independent path, which forces us to rely on a particular kind of energy, as we make our way across the galaxy."

"But you can't just steal an interstellar cruise ship," McCoy interrupted, "because you prefer a ridiculously lavish economy!" The surgeon stepped up along-side the captain now, worn out by the grandiose prevarication of the gravity barons. "You've gone and made yourselves into refugees. You can't expect to carry your whole world and every floating palace on your backs—or on the backs of the _Amphora _and her passengers."

Kirk didn't bother to rebuke his chief medical officer.

As with many a conversation between an older man and a younger one, this gave Babbington a chance to smile with false deference, to acknowledge the earthmen's lack of patience or intelligence. "Our former sun, Captain, was dying. We've made extensive plans to relocate our beloved world to one of several nearby systems, but until we can find the most agreeable orbit around one of the stars in our path, well, we simply must make accommodations. 'The needs of the many,' as we say here on Chilion."

"Sir, if I may," Spock tried again, "it appears from our sensor readings that your planet has been itinerating through the local systems for at least thirty standard years. How much longer do you anticipate your journey will take?"

"Well," Babbington said, his hands coming up in a mild gesture of consternation, "that all depends on the circumstances, of course. It may be quite some time."

"Quite some time, indeed," another voice said, from down the length of the room. It was a thin and reedy old voice, but not to be contradicted. In the purple rays of the setting moon, however, the landing party could not see who was speaking.

"Yes, and what concern is it of yours," another silver-haired gentleman called out, from even farther down the long polished oval. The faces of several of them had grown ruddy in the fading light, and gnarled old hands skittered in agitation against the table, from out of starched shirt cuffs and silky suit coats.

"Gentleman," Kirk said, as the natives became more and more restless, and their chatter and shouts of protest grew louder, "we are going to conduct an investigation of every ship that's disappeared near this stellar region in the last two star-decades. And I will expect an accounting, from you, for each and every last one of them. Good evening, now."

At this, Kirk turned to go (not knowing precisely _where_ he'd go, or how he'd get there without his communicator) just as he heard a sudden humming like an angry hive of bees, accompanying the angry voices behind him. And then a strange clattering of much hollow metal, against the long stone table.

He turned to see the strangest sight, as a whole mob of elegantly clothed old men was slowly tumbling toward him in a state of apoplectic rage. A few of the frail, little men were in beautiful, matching wheelchairs, though most of the others hobbled unsteadily on braces and crutches, revealing one or both legs had been amputated or lost in battle, with their suit-pants hemmed beautifully to length, and others, still, waving canes to spur them onward. Initially, Kirk felt a rush of humility, to think of so many brave old men set against him, canes rattling like sabers in the air.

Down came the quaking little horde, as they hobbled forward to attack—the old men on crutches stumbling on, or being run down by, their comrades in motorized luxury wheelchairs, in a slow-motion collapse. Spotted old fists and shining walking sticks waggled mercilessly from the heap, even as young secretaries and footmen rushed forward to untangle their betters from their clotted, helpless outrage.

O'Reilly and Tamura were both giggling terribly at the awful sight, and Kirk could not restrain his wrath as he led the crewmen out through the glossy white doors again, and into the artificial light of the sable-colored colonnade, with a long line of white pillars and windows revealing the city at dusk.

"Rig a signal from your tricorders," he ordered, without any allowance for the difficulty of the matter. "Get a signal to the ship. We're not staying," he snarled, with blood pounding in his temples.

But then, several meters ahead, he caught sight of the beautiful Allena, walking slowly between blocks of dim light, from the arched windows along one side of the hallway.

She had a comical, slightly frightened look on her face as she stopped some twenty meters away. She must have seen the landing party storm out of the boardroom, and now they descended upon her. But, after the emotional explosion they'd left behind, she seemed strangely serene in her pale blue suit-dress, almost huddled against the deep brown walls. She wore a funny, matching, bulbous blue hat that covered what Kirk imagined was her elaborate hair-style.

"Perhaps you should come inside," she said, with a trace of pity and urgency, as if the landing party were a group of helpless orphans caught out in the rain. After the smallest fraction of a second, they filed through her doorway.

She held a long, slender finger to her glossy peach-colored lips and she the door shut behind them. Waving her long, graceful arm, she swept the _Enterprise _crewmen into an adjoining room as an urgent rapping came against the hallway door.

There was a muffled, brief conversation in out in the main room, and Kirk read Spock's lips as the Vulcan listened against the closed door. _"I'll handle this, if you please,"_ the Vulcan repeated, soundlessly, quoting the first daughter of the "most honored King Jonoff."


	3. Chapter 3

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Three **

_Captain's Log, Stardate 2970.23. Engineer Scott in temporary command. Captain Kirk has not answered our signal in over four hours. But, from life-form readings, it appears they are in satisfactory condition at present. I remain convinced the planet below presents a threat to shipping lanes, until it can be stopped from destroying ships for their warp drives…_

"Negative on all scans, Mr. Scott," Lt. Sulu announced, from the ship's helm.

"Keep looking, Mr. Sulu, they're out there, somewhere," Scotty grumbled, leaning to one side in the captain's chair as a yeoman handed him a report to sign.

On the viewscreen, the rogue planet revolved majestically, in the middle of nowhere. Each moment revealed more, great hexagonal oceans, coming into view beneath the glowing moon. Somewhere, Scotty surmised, this culture was building another ramjet, to replace the one that _Enterprise _had just destroyed, and whose partial remains sat below in the hanger deck.

They won't be without their main power source for long, he told himself. It would be foolish not to have another ramjet sitting in storage somewhere, just in case—the price for going without it could be too great, bringing an entire world to a cold, dead standstill in a great big hurry.

"Mr. Chekov," the chief engineer said now, taken by a small inspiration. "Show me the path their planet's taken, and plot it back to their home-system, if ye can."

"On screen," the helmsman said, without delay.

A long, swirling, occasionally retrograde line scrawled across the viewscreen: tracing where the rogue and its moon had been in months and years and decades past. It was a course from system to system, with the occasional swirl around some passing star, for a sling-shot to greater speed. By now, those stars and planets had, themselves, moved on in their own predestined manner, after a brief dance with this passing stranger.

He supposed the dry-dock, or space station, could be anywhere along that route, or adjacent to any other black holes between the starting point and here.

"Show black holes," Scotty said, with the usual burred accent.

Chekov tapped a few lighted rectangular panels on his console, and a sprinkling of red dots appeared on the map.

"Mr. Sulu," Scotty began, sitting himself more upright now, "if you wanted to hide a heavy machine works out there, where would you do it?"

"If I were building a ramjet, I'd want to keep it near the highest concentration of non-dormant black holes, Mr. Scott," the navigator supposed. "It would be closer to where they'd need it most and harder for us to find."

"Aye, it's worth a try," Scotty said. "Bring us in, course 269-point… whatever you think, Lieutenant," the senior officer decided. "Not too close at first."

Uhura spoke up, from behind him. "Shall I drop a satellite over the landing party's last known coordinates?"

"Aye, lass," he said. "Let's leave a signal for 'em, just in case."

"Aye, sir," Uhura said, taking a fraction of a second to remember the procedure, and then tapping it in to the computer. Less than two minutes later, from the lowest deck of the ship, a hatch opened and a blinking metal object drifted down into a lower orbit, in the silence of space.

A short time later the _Enterprise _rose up and up, and warped away.

From the penthouse of the great, floating building, the man-made oceans looked like monstrous silent honeycombs in the dark, suggesting activity beneath the surface. Allena had excused herself shortly after their arrival in the private quarters, and returned in a shimmering blue gown, with strings of sapphires in her hair. Dinner was wheeled in and consumed, and now the landing party spread out around the perimeter of the building on the balcony, to watch the night above and flying traffic below.

"I must say, I'm shocked, Captain Kirk," she said, after some idle pleasantries.

He only raised his eyebrows, smiling innocently.

"Well, you haven't once said, 'take me to your leader,' or any of those other things space-people are supposed to say when they come here."

"Why would I want to see your leader," he said quietly, still smiling.

"Well, don't you have some message of galactic consequence, or want to challenge him to a duel, or something?"

"I do have a message of consequence," he said, suddenly leaning in to kiss her, and daring to look very closely into her deep, dark eyes.

"Well," she said, exhaling a little, "I must try to get out into the galaxy a little more often."

"And how is Madame Butterfly tonight?" a familiar, Southern voice inquired quietly, from over Kirk's shoulder. And, though he disliked the interruption, Jim Kirk had to admit that the beautiful young woman's gown did resemble that of a delicate, blue- winged insect. But, from his still-youthful grin, McCoy realized that Kirk had already forgotten his admonition about Puccini heroines and Starfleet diplomacy.

"Ah, Doctor McCoy," Allena said, letting the strange reference to Earth opera pass by, "Captain Kirk here won't give me the secret plans to the unimaginable evil your Federation hopes to unleash upon an unsuspecting Universe."

"You're looking at it," McCoy said, raising a glass in the direction of his commanding officer, as she gazed playfully at the captain. It was obvious that both Kirk and Allena expected the doctor to pass on by, now that he'd made his light-hearted contribution. But, instead, the doctor simply squared his shoulders and heaved a grateful sigh after a lovely dinner.

"I don't suppose you have a friend for my friend," Kirk said, after an awkward moment.

"I'm afraid I don't. It's a lonely business, being a mindless figurehead. But I want the doctor to stay—so I can learn how your most intimate friends communicate with you," Allena insisted. Then her manner turned to comical jealousy. "And I demand to know, right away, who exactly is this Madame Butterberry."

"We're not _that _intimate," McCoy protested. "Oh, and Madame Butterfly is his wife, back on Earth."

"I see," she said, her wide eyes growing even wider now.

"Madame Butterberry is my _concubine_," Kirk corrected, straight-faced, though it seemed obvious he was far too young for such an elaborate life of deception, as of yet.

"A wife _and _a concubine? My goodness, no wonder you're out to space for years and years," she said, turning to face the smoldering moon.

Finally, McCoy moved on, and Kirk leaned against the balcony wall, to admire her profile. "Tell me about your father," he said.

For a moment, she seemed shocked, sincerely—but with a trace of a smile, nonetheless. "It's funny you should bring that up, at this precise moment, Captain."

"Why is that?"

"Well, I really don't remember him very well, myself. But if you asked anyone else on the face of the planet, they'd tell you he had far more than the average number of wives and concubines, himself." She raised her shoulders up, as though the loss of him was still enough to make her feel a chill.

"People say all kinds of odd things," Kirk said quietly, as McCoy finally meandered away.

"Well," Allena insisted, in her warm, almost childlike manner, "some of those rumors have simply got to be true, don't you think? I mean, there are just too many of them!"

"If history were written by the gossips," Kirk shook his head, "every great moment would occur right before, or right, after some romantic fling."

"Well," she said, philosophically, "_some _of those great moments had to occur because of a fling. Without a fling, it's quite possible that neither one of us would be here right now!"

It was just then that a twinkling golden star caught his eye, nearly overhead.

"But he was much more than that," Allena resumed, staring out at the horizon. "I mean, he was a great man, and the reason our culture went into space in the first place. He threw down a gauntlet, in a manner of speaking, and demanded our scientists explore the moon, the original one, not that one up there now. And thanks to him, we were eventually able to escape our dying sun. Of course, father, King Jonoff was dead himself by the time any of that came to fruition." Then, her eyes turned down to her own delicate hands on the balcony wall.

"It was very shocking and sad, the murder and all the intrigue… even though I was too young to understand any of it at the time. But all of this, all the floating towers; the great weight of the artificial oceans that helps guide us… tumbling from star to star; not to mention the tremendous power of the energy from our black holes, harnessed to keep us alive and thriving, even, in the depths of space…" She noticed he wasn't listening, and then trailed off, trying to see what he was staring at, so intently, up above.

"I'm sorry," Kirk said, after recognizing the silence, and turning his attention back to her, from the blinking satellite the _Enterprise _had dropped.

"Perhaps I should concentrate more on flings and concubines, in my historical accounts," she said, with an awkward little smile.

"No, no, it's not that," Kirk said. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Of course. I'll ring for more wine," she said, gliding past him. Her soft, translucent gown trailed behind, glowing with metallic threads.

"I saw it," Mr. Spock said quietly, when Kirk came up alongside the science officer. His faintly orange Vulcan fingertips seemed to be tapping out the pattern of the flashing signal light from the _Enterprise's _satellite, on the balcony's edge.

"And we're stuck down here," Kirk said, as if left-behind on the eve of battle.

Down the length of the balcony, the other members of the landing party were watching the orbiting signal themselves, translating the code into words and sentences, and casting expectant glances toward the captain.

But then Allena returned, and behind her were more waiters with more silvery push-carts loaded down with chilled wine and even more colorful bits of food, what seemed to be some kind of chilled dessert. She walked out close to his side, and for a long moment they simply took in the night: the skyscrapers like great rockets, or ornaments hanging on a Christmas tree. They seemed to be perpetually blasting into space, without going anywhere: hovering at various levels across the open air, dotting the horizon for miles and miles; draped across the dim moon, like a pharaoh's jewelry. And below that, a quiet, white-edged ocean; and the forests and farms, turned black after dark.

"Doesn't this all seem," Kirk asked, tentatively, "a little extravagant?"

"How do you mean," Allena asked, with quiet sincerity.

"Do the buildings have to do that?"

"You mean fly?"

"Wouldn't it be more efficient if they just rested on the ground?"

"Well," Allena said, as if the topic hadn't come up for a long time, "we've had a terrible problem with seismic disruptions: you know, when the geological plates go smashing into one another," she said, pounding her slender fists together in the air. "It's partly due to the great weight of the oceans, when we fill them up, first this one, then another, then empty the first one. It puts a terrible strain on the crust. And there's the nearness of the moon, I suppose."

"Oh. " He tried again: "can't you move the moon out farther away?"

"Yes, but we need it so terribly—it's our sun, you see, when we're out between actual stars."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, the beams of plasma, from the black holes nearby," she said, with a sudden sense of the excitement of the tremendous energy, rushing from the blackest spots in the Universe, to her world, twinkling in the dark. "If you aim them into the surface of the moon, it just heats up like a miniature sun. It's mostly bauxite, after all."

"Of course," Kirk said, growing used to the wildly improbable.

"I mean, you can't lie on the beach and get a tan from it, of course. But it's enough to keep the crops alive, and you even can read by it during the daytime," she said, not grandly, but almost as though she had to make excuses for wearing a patched old sweater that should have gone into the bin some years ago. "And," she added, with a flourish, "if you heat it up just off-center now and then, it changes the moon's orbit around us, and that, in turn helps change our path through the galaxy. And the water from all our oceans puts moisture in the air, and that helps support the warmth in the atmosphere!" She smiled with a great sense of triumph and cleverness, after drawing wobbly orbits around each other with her fingertips, right under his skeptical nose.

"I see."

"Isn't that something? They have dozens of ways of moving us across space, and we're getting faster all the time! It makes one feel terribly important to go fast, don't you think?" she said, with the lilt in her voice, barely acknowledging her own little attempt at irony.

"Don't you ever think about just moving to another planet?"

"Well, think of all the work we've put into this one," she said, rolling her eyes at the prospect of throwing it all away and starting over again from scratch. "And, really, once you've settled in a place, it becomes special, really. I mean, probably everyone thinks their planet is exceptional. But ours really is!"

"But there are hundreds of billions of other worlds in this galaxy alone," he said. "Someplace new, and unspoiled? Where you wouldn't be covering one grand folly with another, and—"

"But there are millions—maybe hundreds of millions—of black holes out there to power us along, on a grand tour," she countered, seemingly quite assured of the rightness of her world's philosophy, but speaking in a thoroughly conversational manner, and even sidling up to him a bit, in a great show of girlish confidence. The cool night air wafted over them, and he put his arm around her.

"Allena," he said, broaching the subject long before he'd planned, "do you ever wonder how all that energy can be harvested so easily? From the powerful swirling cyclone of plasma around an impossibly heavy, impossibly dangerous collapsed star?"

"Well," she said, shaking her head slightly, "if you're asking me how well I did in university, you might be a little disappointed! I mean, I've seen all the feelies on the strand, about the dangers and deprivation of the early plasma prospectors. Some of them died quite horribly, getting sucked into the maelstrom, did you know that?"

"Yes, of course," Kirk supposed.

"But what truly great society hasn't had to make some terrible sacrifice or other?"

He didn't have anything to say to that, of course, for it was clear that she really hadn't a clue as to who was sacrificing, or for what. The old Earth expert in palace intrigues, Machiavelli, once said "behind every great fortune lies a crime." But Jim Kirk couldn't imagine arresting this beautiful young woman for events set into motion before she was born, or when she was very little, or that others had contrived in her name. Could he?

"Suppose I told you," he said, after trying to couch his words properly, "that terrible sacrifices were still being made for all of this."

"By whom?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

He decided to back up and try another tack. "Allena, we came here in search of the passengers and crew of a large cruise vessel, the _Amphora_. Do you know anything about them?"

"No," she answered. "Why, what happened?" But he needn't have answered, as the beautiful space princess was already adding up all of his hints and all of his inquiries, till she came up with a fairly good approximation of his concerns, on her own. Suddenly, she seemed very far away, though they were still standing together in the dark. Her elegant hands drew up into hard fists on the wall around the balcony.

"I believe you're suggesting," she said, leaning slightly away from him, and a raspy tone of worry coming into her voice, "that all of this is tied together, somehow."

"I'm afraid so."

"And now, I suppose, we'll have to give up everything we've built, over the last many years."

"I don't know the answer to that," he said quietly.

"Isn't there any technology, anywhere in the galaxy, that we could barter for?" Now, her hands flexed flat again, and it seemed she was just looking at some invisible thread in her fingertips, some tenuous and wearying line that seemed to unravel as soon as she'd begun to grasp it.

He could easily imagine an antimatter-drive system to distort an accretion disc, as the _Amphora _had, before she burned out, and burned up. But then he remembered those men in the boardroom, so easily riled into a fury, and tried to conceive of their grand designs becoming even grander, over time. And what was he to do?

Then he became aware of a sound like a distant, rushing wind. Allena raised her arm, and pointed out into the darkness. After a moment, Kirk could see that she was gesturing toward the more distant great hexagonal ocean on the horizon.

"That one's just started filling up," she said, a tiny note of sadness still in her throat, but managing to speak with the matter-of-fact tone of a tour guide.

"Ah," he nodded, though his mind was on the long-term problems of the people of Chilion, not its calculated shifts from one fanciful non-orbit to the next, across the galaxy.

"It's quite spectacular, if you're interested." She smoothed her gown, as though she were checking imaginary pockets in the gauzy fabric. "I think we have enough fly-suits for everyone, if you'd like to see," she said, seeming eager to change the subject.

"Fly-suits?" he asked, his heart beginning to pound at the thought of flight and freedom.

She quickly counted the landing party, with its seventh member, Dr. McCoy, and strode purposely into her royal suite, Jim Kirk following behind. One room led to another, and soon they were standing in a closet the size of a small warehouse, gently lit to match the hour, and filled with footwear and clothing, from floor to ceiling.

"Ah, here we are," she said, energetically pushing apart two tall rolling racks of gowns. The long dresses swayed as if caught by some long-gone melody, dancing as she shoved them aside to reveal some less glamorous mechanical gear behind, hidden away in a back row. And each fly-suit, or collection of bands and belts, had a big, yellow and orange backpack, and lens-like blobs that extended on struts from the shoulders and hips, and arms and legs.

"I should tell you," Allena said, stepping easily into one of the dark bronze exoskeletons, "these are absolutely forbidden under the new emergency conservation rules. So, it's something we'd only get to do at night," she smiled mischievously, having seemed to forget the weightier matters of a few minutes ago. Then she helped him into one, and they walked back to the balcony—he, clanging and clattering a bit, while she seemed thoroughly practiced and somehow still quite elegant in her own.

"Gentlemen; Yeoman," Kirk announced, as the others on the balcony turned to look: "Go get your fly-suits." He jerked his thumb back the way he'd come and they hurried inside, following the footprints in the thick carpeting, as he got quick instructions from the princess.

The humming power packs weren't loud enough to prevent some limited conversation between members of the landing party, as they tentatively hovered over the balcony. And then, one by one, over the edge they went: like bumblebees, against the dim moon.

But as they neared the great white ocean barrier, the sound of thunderous geysers roared out from underground channels and became deafening. Silvery columns of water arced from every-other great ocean wall, shooting across the great empty bed, stunning to behold: like an outrageous series of waterfalls rushing sideways from three different "cliffs," to collide at the center, cloaked in churning clouds of mist, which seemed to roil with the thunderous noise. As strange as dark and raging water, though, was the fact that two more ocean beds were filling as well, along the next horizon, sending up lazy clouds of mists.

"How often does that happen," Kirk shouted to Allena, over the roar.

"Not very often," she called back, stretching her hand lenses out to balance the weight of her tall beehive, when she tilted her head toward him.

"Isn't it staggering," Allena called, hovering closer now. Kirk gave a look to his first officer, floating off to his left that suggested the whole thing was, indeed, quite staggering.


	4. Chapter 4

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Four**

"Allena, we need our communicators," he said, once they'd returned to the royal tower and wriggled out of their fly-suits.

"That shouldn't be a problem," she said, stepping up to the captain, and seeming to be glad to be alone at last. "Can it wait till morning?"

He smiled in spite of himself, at the awkwardness. "Sooner would be better," he said, looking for a strand of dark hair on her pretty head that he might straighten, or loosen, purely in the interests of interstellar amity. The wind around the floating skyscrapers rustled her gown, and the warm glow of light from inside, softened the shadows around them.

"Allena," he said, at once leaning in slightly, and also seized by a sense of duty, "I need to know what happened to the people on board the _Amphora_."

She eased back, ever so slightly, on her heels: as if the romantic mood had passed, possibly for good.

"Well, I believe my brother said something about castaways," she said, still hushed and a bit husky. "But they're all fine, in one of our remote communities. Relocated, the castaways they found, I think he said."

"I think I need to talk to your brother, then," Kirk said, his brow lowering with serious determination.

"Well, I'm afraid it's a bit late for that," Allena replied quietly, shrugging her narrow, bare shoulders, and thus setting a wave of sapphires a-twinkle at the base of her neck. "You see, he was up inside one of the first buildings that came crashing down. It was quite a shock. Just first thing this past morning."

There was a little pause, while Kirk tried to assess the impact this may have had on her.

"I mean, I hardly knew him, he was thirty years older than I am, and terribly… serious," she said, looking into Kirk's eyes.

"So, you're the next in the… line of succession?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, leaning in to where Kirk could feel the glow of warmth and perfume emanating across the last inches between them.

It would be wrong, of course, to say that Jim Kirk was simply thinking now of a way to distract the young princess from her duties, so Mr. Spock and some other member of the landing party could secure some fly-suits, and go searching for the passengers and crew of that doomed cruise vessel. And, it would be equally wrong to suggest that he was simply looking for an excuse to sweep up this impossibly delicate, funny, alluring woman into his arms and make her his own, even at the risk of his manhood.

But somewhere between those two cold extremes was enough of something else to settle the matter. They kissed, and held each other in a moment of perfect stillness. Soon, though, Allena asked to be excused, as is so often the mysterious case with women, and Captain James T. Kirk took the opportunity to step out on to the balcony. There, his Vulcan second-in-command could be seen, several meters away on a separate overhang, seeming to brood in the chilled air, over the great 3-D chess game in the sky.

Down in the shuttle bay of the USS _Enterprise_, Scotty found himself in the bitterest of Heavens, or the sweetest of Hells, amidst the wreckage of the alien ramjet.

Large clamps hung from the high arched ceiling, holding the shiny black barrel of its stinger-like tail in mid-air, and stretching nearly the entire length of the bay. And, scattered along either side of that great cannon-like tube lay several other giant pieces of alien machinery, as yet to be identified, and dozens of smaller pieces swept up in the _Enterprise _tractor beam. What had to be the actual ramjet intakes lay on their sides nearby, like the blown-out gills of an Earth shark. He walked silently around the great mess for the hundredth time, muttering quietly.

"Aye, so ye won't talk," he said, as if he was a policeman, and the wreckage was some malefactor with a personality of its own: dark and glowering and proud. So he circled around again, putting the entire beast back together in his mind, this way or that. A tricorder was slung around his neck, and his fingers patted against it idly, as if the familiar instrument were a kitten hanging against his chest—one that could never know as much about the art of engineering as he did.

Finally, as he rounded the long barrel of the robot space-ship once again, Lt. O'Neil appeared overhead, slowly wiggling backwards, out of firing end of the heavy metal cannon, black boots and black trousers first. His blue tunic was scuffed with coal black ash after delving deep inside and, when he dropped down to the hanger deck, his boots landed smartly on the hard surface. He smoothed his dark hair, and wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve.

"I don't know, Mr. Scott," he sighed. "Look at this," he said, holding out his own tricorder. "Just a series of metal plates and—well, I guess, some kind of resonator."

Scotty nodded, but his lips were pursed and his eyes squinting, down at the tricorder, as if he were utterly frustrated.

"All right, lad," he said quietly, as if the mechanism might be feigning sleep, but listening to their every word. "Get over to the screens and see if ye can draw up a schematic. Doesn't have to be exactly right, let's just get started."

"Yes, Mr. Scott," the lieutenant said, and hurried across the great hanger to a computer station tucked away in a corner. Scotty turned and scratched his head, giving a weary little kick to another scarred piece of shrapnel. Like pottery from an archeological dig, the twisted little piece now lay glinting, half-way into another red square they'd drawn on the deck. He'd liked to have kicked the whole mess into a giant heap to start over again, but he guessed he didn't have time for that.

"You know, Mr. Scott," O'Neil finally said, his voice echoing across the bay, "I think the little pieces are the key, somehow."

"Aye, that'd figure," Scotty said, scratching the back of his head in frustration. "And a lucky shot'd make them all impossible to put back together, sure as shootin'."

Now, the man in charge of keeping the starship _Enterprise_ in top condition was down on his hands and knees, examining one fist-sized, or head-sized hunk of blasted alien metal after another, and trying not to let his Scottish exasperation get the better of him, over the damned incalculable nature of another technology. And, fifty meters away, O'Neil was doing the same with virtual images on the large computer screen: like two blind men, patting their ways around an elephant from different ends.

Back on the planet or, rather, high above it, Jim Kirk was all alone with a beautiful girl, in her royal sitting room, in the dark. And he felt a kind of joy at having stepped off the racing sidewalk of life. All he could think now of was the hypnotic peace in her large, dark eyes, along with the seeming fragility of her graceful arms, and her gentle lack of artifice.

He wanted to see that shocking honesty, that perfect innocence just one more time. It made his heart rise within his chest, and a foolish grin spread across his face.

"What is it," she asked, leaning in a bit closer, as if some vastly important bit of information had been left unspoken.

"I think you may be too young for me," Jim Kirk said, though he was really thinking of how innocent she seemed.

"Oh. And how old do you think I am?"

Now he felt as though he had stumbled into some alien force-field, trapped and rendered helpless by a question that could not possibly be answered correctly.

"Seventeen," he said, pulling a number out of a hat.

"Oh, my goodness, no—I'm a hundred and ninety-two!"

Now it was his turn to be shocked. He felt all the blood drain out of his face, arms and legs.

"But of course we still figure our calendar on the old system. It used to take just fifty days to go 'round our original sun, every year. Give or take. A hundred and ninety-two _old _years old, I should say."

"Oh, well, in that case," Kirk frowned, quickly doing the math, "I'm afraid you're too old for me."

She punched him in the shoulder. And laughed.

"Well, that's part of how we got thrown out of our solar system in the first place," she said, after a moment's reflection. "We were already going around so quickly to begin with, it just took a little nudge, I suppose, and 'zoom!' I mean, there were several tricks involved. But don't ask me about the physics of it. It's really beyond me, as a sort of unexpected ruler."

He took her hands and kissed them gently. But gradually, Kirk and Allena became aware of a light knocking on the door.

"Do we have children already?" Kirk asked, his lips brushing against hers, as he whispered his words.

"I suppose it's possible," she said, slightly out of breath, "the world is moving even faster than ever."

"Captain?" came the voice on the other side of the door. Jim Kirk recognized it as Dr. McCoy.

"What is it, Bones?" Kirk called, trying to remain where he was. But the beautiful space princess had slipped out of his arms, and demurely crossed the room to straighten her flowing gown and high-up braided hair. With a sense of resignation, he made his way to the door and opened it, just a crack.

"_Mr. Spock hasn't reported back yet_," McCoy said, in a slightly dramatic whisper, his face right on the other side of the door. The Vulcan science officer had left with Lt. Riley less than two hours before, searching for the castaways.

"_He doesn't have his communicator_," Kirk replied, also with hushed urgency. "_And neither do you_."

"Oh. Right," McCoy nodded, before regaining his whispering intensity. "_Mind if I come in_?"

"_As a matter of fact, I do_."

"_Oh_," McCoy said, without really seeming to get the message. The doctor began peering into the large, darkened suite, and his shoulder slowly leaned in, following his searching gaze. Then, as if he were changing the subject: "_Mind if I come in_?"

"_You just asked me that_," Kirk whispered again, trying to appear patient.

"Oh," the doctor repeated. "Well," he grumbled, "just… stay out of trouble."

"Yes, dad." The door began to close between them.

"I'll be right outside," McCoy said, louder, out in the gilded hallway.

"No, you won't," Kirk said, from the other side of the door.

After a moment's glowering, the doctor stalked back to his own suite, his boots making a soft crushing sound on the carpet. Portraits of noblemen and women watched knowingly as he went, and golden pitchers and ornamental clocks glittered against the walls beneath them, as crystal chandeliers blazed proudly overhead. And as McCoy opened the door to his own chambers, he shook his head, wondering what kind of a eunuch of a captain would be left at all, if this matter were allowed to follow its natural course, against the will of Starfleet.

Back in her own suite, Allena suddenly seemed perplexed, as Kirk joined her again on the large couch.

"What is it?"

"Why," she asked, in her soft-spoken manner, "would anyone want to use this cruise ship of yours for the energy harvest?"

And so, Kirk began to explain about the _Amphora_'s warp engines, and how they distorted the plasma energy accretion disc, making it possible for "harvesting" ramjets to venture closer and closer to the singularity, right up near the event-horizon: to sweep up the brilliant, super-heated plasma before it went spiraling into the black center; and to beam it, instead, back to Chilion. Without getting pulled in, in the process.

"But what is it about these 'warp engines'?" she asked, as if he'd utterly missed the point of her question.

And, as any modern student of physics could have easily explained, he went through the basic equation of matter and anti-matter coming together with incomprehensible force, but peacefully channeled through a series of dilithium crystals in a magnetic chamber, into an orderly, faster-than-light thrust. And then he just shrugged his own shoulders, as if to say that it was all perfectly commonplace.

"Oh, dear," she said, strangely.

"What is it," he said, taking the opportunity to gently rub his fingertips down her soft and narrow back, in what might seem like a reassuring gesture.

"It sounds awfully like what happens to us when we die," she said, tilting her head in bewilderment. She looked as though she was about to have a headache, brushing her forehead with her fingers. "That… all our contradictions will be brought together and the… collision will cause a terrible conflagration. It's what we're told will happen, on the Final Day."

"Everything that's opposite, smashing together in some final destruction?"

"There's more to it than that, I'm afraid. You probably wouldn't believe this," she said, clearing her throat, as if she were about to make an official speech of some kind, "but since the death of my brother the other day, I'm… _technically_ sort of the head of the official church… around here."

"Oh, well," Kirk said, trying to weigh all of this in his head, "I've never kissed a pope before."

"What's a pope," she asked, now hoping to change the subject, even as she despaired at the weight of the decisions suddenly coming into her life.

"Never mind," he sighed, knowing that the romantic mood had passed for the night, as swift as moonlight behind a cloud. Doctor McCoy would have been quite pleased.

"It might be a good idea," she said suddenly, as they stood up in the darkness and walked to the door, "if you didn't say anything about the ins-and-outs of this warped drive of yours, while you're here. I mean, personally, _I'm _not particularly religious, or superstitious, or whatever you call it. I'm really quite modern. But plenty of people around here are quite serious about it, you know."

"Really?"

"I mean, I probably shouldn't even venture into talks about science at all. Let alone religion." Then, she folded her arms impatiently. "Science has gotten so strange, after all, from when I was a little girl. And now it's all so ridiculously like… some sort of… fever-dream! It practically forces one to flee into religion for some kind of predictable rationality!"

"I never thought about that before," Kirk smiled, apologetically, as he turned to go. He stepped out into the corridor, and a column of light poured into the room, framing her perfectly, though she blinked uncomfortably, as if he'd opened up a harsh new reality to her.

"Good night," he murmured, and closed the door softly behind him, leaving her in a darkness that seemed much darker than before. She didn't look out the long wall of glass, or she might have thought about jumping.

The cold air rumbled against his ears as Mr. Spock flew through the night, and Lt. Riley followed a dozen meters behind. Their arms and legs were splayed out like water bugs', with glowing lenses extended from their hands and feet, and shoulders and hips and knees, just a hundred meters above the dark trees and fields rushing past below, black against the black ground.

"What are we looking for, Mr. Spock?" Riley called, when he was close enough to be heard over the roar of the wind. Each man held a tricorder in one hand, but at arm's length, any readings on their scanners were difficult to see.

"Any sort of isolated village or permanent stockade," the Vulcan called back, "which might hold the passengers and crew of the_ Amphora_."

"How do you program your tricorder for that?" Riley said loudly.

"Set for power sources suitable for a small town, Mr. Riley, of perhaps five hundred or less," Spock replied, his fierce-looking brow lowering over his eyes, against the buffeting winds, or perhaps against the slow-witted lieutenant.

Not long after this, Riley went flipping off in a barrel-roll in the dark, like a piece of a clay duck, splitting off from the first officer's side. But then, a few minutes later, he was back with his tricorder dangling from his elbow.

"It's hard to re-program with one hand, in this wind," he said.

"Please reacquaint yourself with the manuals concerning elementary equipment handling, Lieutenant," the superior officer remarked, as they flew on through the darkness.

"Now you've spoiled the romantic mood," Riley muttered, under his breath. If Spock heard him with his tall, fluted ears, he gave no indication.

Another fifteen minutes passed in silence, save for the rumbling wind, and what little they could hear from their beeping tricorders. They progressed outward from the original beam-down coordinates in a wider and wider spiral—until, at last, after what seemed like hours, they detected a force-field and swept off about forty-five degrees to the north-east.

Then, a few minutes later, they realized they were getting closer and closer to the ground, as the trees all loomed upward like dark monsters, trying to swallow them up.

"Turn around—get back to the landing party," Spock called, but even as they spun like gulls, to see the glow of the city in the distance, they were still falling. And very soon, the conglomeration of faraway lights disappeared beyond the horizon.

Then, as if falling from the sky wasn't bad enough, sudden blasts of light began streaking past them, obviously to keep them from running once they hit the ground. Neither Spock nor Riley could clearly identify a particular color to the train-cars of light that went flying past, shimmering and almost sizzling as they dissipated, over their shoulders. At one split second, they could see a predominance of silvery white, with a bright shadow of red or pink, that jittered and became a coppery greenish yellow, as each giant oblong block of energy raced by in a kind of radiant Doppler effect, of a totally different spectrum. And though their main sensation was of falling, each man thought he could hear a sound like a factory door being slid open, as each great sheet of light went by.

Then there was just the chaotic noise of snapping thick branches and the relatively slow "whoosh" of foliage cascading down along with them, and on top of them. There may have been a few white flashes of pain, as they tumbled down through the tree-tops, but their fall, slowed by the tree limbs, was only fast enough to crack a few ribs. A short moment passed in complete silence, as each man overcame the shock. Then, as quickly as they could, they struggled up on unsteady legs, on a thick layer of pine needles.

"My tricorder," Riley said, in a mournful tone, sounding dazed. He began looking up into the dark sky, where the device must still be dangling from a branch high above. A cool breeze made the pines rustle like rushing waters.

Spock immediately began shrugging himself out of his ruined flight-suit, and Riley was still fiddling with the belts and lashes on his own arms and legs, when they heard the hum of approaching hovercraft. The science officer helped him by hoisting the crushed energy cell off the younger man's back.

"The power-packs were stalling before we ever came down," Riley said, annoyed.

"Agreed," Spock said. "Evidently some power-dampening field, perhaps as an outer-ring defense for the force-field we detected."

The sound of hovercraft was getting louder, and Spock looked into the tiny controls on the flip-top of his hand-held scanner. He adjusted the tricorder till its little screen went a bright shade of red. Then, instead of the usual piercing warbling noise, came a high-pitched sound, and the two men crouched among the heavy fallen tree limbs, pulling them over their bodies. Gradually, the hovercraft noise faded away. They waited a few more minutes in absolute silence, beneath the swaying trees.

"Back to the city, Mr. Spock?" Riley said, once the first officer had stood again, and both men were dusting pine needles and gold pollen from their trousers. Riley began looking around, and up in the branches, like a mouse watching for owls, and not very happy to be lost in the wild.

"Negative, Lieutenant. The most probable scenario is that the captain and members of the landing party will come looking for us, long before we could ever hope to reach the beam-down coordinates again on foot. Therefore, the most logical solution is to carry on with our mission, in… that direction," the Vulcan said, orienting himself with almost no difficulty at all, despite the black forest night. At once, he began trudging through the infinity of giant redwoods, across fields of soft mulch, with Riley close behind.

"Yes, gentlemen, what is it you want," Allena said, still blinking the sleep from her eyes, as she stood before the high council, at the very strange hour of three in the morning. She wasn't terribly surprised they were still here, they were always here, as far back as she could remember, whenever she came in or passed by. But now the white-hot light from the lamps in front of each councilman seemed entirely too bright. Her hands were folded over her waist, and she wore a long, quilted dressing gown of pale mauve satin, and both its high sharp neck and the way it flared out around her calves had the unintended effect of making her seem unusually serious and ceremonial, for a young lady.

"Princess Allena," Mr. Babbington said, with the appropriate mixture of fatherliness and respect, "as you know, Captain Kirk has placed us in quite a jam, and we're going to have to initiate further austerity moves at once."

"Yes," Allena sighed, weary of the obvious. "What steps have you taken to restore power, Mr. Babbington?"

Babbington blinked and pulled back a few millimeters from his friendly, forward leaning pose. "Well, we're doing everything that's possible, of course, Princess. But our operations are contingent on a number of factors—"

"Like the _Amphora_," she said, abruptly, as though the name had been ringing in her ears since she'd said good night to the captain. And now, the glare of the boardroom lighting, combined with her own persistent desire to return to bed, was making her more and more terse.

"Well, yes, that and other things," Mr. Babbington nodded, taking great care to appear philosophical, while the other men sat in absolute stony silence.

"Gentlemen," she said with a sigh, "if you can't maintain stability for my people, I shall simply have to find someone else who can." And with that she turned to go, tossing her head slightly as the quilted fabric of her dressing gown rustled to catch up with the rest of her.

"We also think it would be best," Mr. Babbington added, as she paused at the tall, gilt-edged doors, "if Captain Kirk and his crew were placed under protective guard, your highness. For their own good."

"I shall determine the best interests of Captain Kirk. And of all of my people," she said, her voice still very quiet and almost dream-like. But, behind her sleepy eyes, something had caught fire.

"You have something of your father in you, your grace," another one of the legion of advisors said, speaking up for the first time, with a high and reedy aged voice.

"I'm quite sure that more than a few young women on this planet could say the same, Mr. Allred." Then, out of thin air, she remembered, "and I should like the devices that were taken from the visitors at once. I will be waiting for them in my quarters, gentlemen, and anticipating a very early start to my day."

The doors were swung open for her as she swept out, and closed behind her with the usual "click," like the gentle meeting of two billiard balls. Once she was down the hall a way, a little smile bowed her lips, as she savored her own surprising change of character. Usually, she was scared stiff of those old men. Perhaps tonight was different, because of the matronly comfort of her dressing gown, or the outrageous, early hour. Or from being in the arms of her new love.

Mr. Babbington was not smiling, once the doors were closed.

"I suppose there's no harm in returning their more peaceful gadgets," he said, his frown turning into a chewing motion, as he paced toward the dark windows at the far end of the room. "Their ship is far away, and they can hardly do anything for one another at the present… But I wonder if the situation can remain stable, when more and more of our city lies in ruins."

"I think it's fairly clear," one of the nearly three dozen old men said, rousing himself from a slightly slumped-over pose, "that we may have bitten off more than we can chew here, Babbington."

"Well," the younger man equivocated, "as long as the captain is down here, and his ship is all the way over in the Pocket, we should be fairly secure. In fact, things should be back to normal in a matter of days, don't you think?"

"But for how long," another man said, very hoarsely. When a butler in a silver and black vest tried to re-fill a water glass before him, he angrily waved him away.

"Oh, come now, gentlemen," Babbington smiled, surprised that they'd lost their nerve so easily. "We have a destiny to follow. Our own path, remember? 'We: not enslaved to some petty star, and no darkness prevails against us,'" he said, tilting his head, as if reciting well-known poetry. "Princess Allena's own father said it a hundred times, before he died. And if my own intuition is any good at all, I imagine Captain Kirk might be very glad to help a young lady in distress, with some kind of solution to our long-range concerns. As long as his precious ship isn't… permanently damaged."

And by the time he turned back to face the others, in pools of light stretching along either side of the dark stone table, his expression had taken on a strangely harmless, almost plaintive look. Little, knowing grumbles of approval could be heard from the elderly men and, slowly, one by one they twisted themselves out of their chairs and hobbled on crutches, or staggered on canes, or wheeled themselves back from the table, and toward the great doorway.

Allena, as Mr. Babbington might have predicted, had already flown down the corridor and across the length of the great floating palace to tell James Kirk of her triumph in facing-down her own implacable advisors: her long, stiff dressing gown flying apart below her knees as she hurried, revealing sensible long white pajamas underneath.

At the last moment, just as she was about to burst into his suite, she paused, steadied herself, and ducked her head toward an ornate mirror hanging on the wall nearby. One little strand of hair on her forehead was coming down toward her left eye, making her look like a schoolboy, she thought. She expertly put it back into place, with a few little sweeps of her fingertips. Then, in a moment of doubt, she went back to the mirror and brushed the auburn lock back down onto her untroubled brow, trusting providence to know best.

The captain managed to wake up as she came padding quietly into his inner room. And, when he saw who it was, and the look of girlish excitement on her face, he merely pulled himself up to a sitting position on the huge bed, against the grand headboard, with a quizzical smile.

She told him all about her triumphant meeting, and how she made it clear that she was in charge of affairs, for the first very time in her life. And that he'd soon be getting back his equipment, taken from them during their short confinement at the police station the previous day.

"I don't know what it is! They woke me up in the middle of the night, and I simply didn't have time to be frightened or nervous! And I felt terribly formal and aloof in my old dressing gown—I'm going to have fifty made up just like it, in absolutely _every _color!"

"History will remember you as the pajama princess," Kirk said, his eyes still half-closed, but seeming to stare off into the admiring, distant ages.

"Oh, be quiet," she laughed, though she couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "You know, I really think I took them totally by surprise, back there. Ha! If they think they can push me around, they've got another think coming, haven't they?"

But Jim Kirk was propping himself further up now, on his hands and elbows, as if he were expecting a sudden collision on board the _Enterprise_.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, and slipped out of the bed, cautiously, crossing to the wall of windows across the room. She was behind him, in a moment, and both stood staring out into the meager glow of dawn, as the huge glowing moon warmed again.

"We're coming down," Allena said quietly, her voice full of wonder.

"That's odd," Kirk said, quietly peering out, past his own reflection in the glass, "it looks like all the other buildings are still up there, at the regular height."

"It must be another safety descent," she said, though she didn't seem very reassured. She took sudden hold of his upper arm.

"But when these buildings come down, when the power is taken away," he said, wandering down the lane of his own thought process, "they lose their internal structure and collapse."

"Well, yes, if it goes that far," she said, suddenly uneasy, and stepping back from the window with her arms folded. It was obvious now, that the royal house was going down to the treetops, and all the rest of the city seemed to be going up in the sky, farther and farther out of reach. "But we have batteries, reserves of power, to see us through days and days."

"The palace, brought low," Kirk said, and then immediately wished he hadn't.

"Oh, dear," she said, wondering if she'd brought this sudden change about, with her rash behavior.

"Would they evacuate the palace?" Kirk asked, also stepping back now.

"I don't think so," she said, with a tone of wonderment in her voice, for such a thing had never happened before. She was holding the neck of her quilted, satin dressing gown closed very tightly now with one hand, and wrapped her other hand around his elbow. "Besides, what will everyone think, when they see the royal house has been moved into a position of safety? While everyone else is still stranded… way up there?" she said, surprised at how far out of reach the rest of her realm was now.

"Maybe you shouldn't have threatened to fire all your advisors," Kirk said, wrapping his free hand around hers, around his other arm.

"They're not really my advisors—they were my fathers', most of them, and then my brothers', till he died. I've only just inherited them, I suppose. Do you think I should go and apologize?"

"For what? You're the one in charge," he said, trying not to sound impatient.

"Am I?" She seemed genuinely lost, lowering herself suddenly into a chair in the corner. "Well, I give up. I was wrong to defy them, and apparently it would be just as wrong to try to make things better again," she sighed.

"I don't think that's the issue," Kirk said, drawing her up again, and leading her to the edge of the giant bed where they sat in the faint rays of dawn.

"They're punishing me for defying them," she stared out the windows at the horizon, which never used to be in sight at all, from her own bed.

Then, all at once, there was a terrible sound of shouting and banging out in the far corridor, beyond the receiving room in Kirk's suite. Both of them stood up, all full of self-consciousness, from the silence at the edge of the bed.

"Your majesty!" came a woman's deep voice.

"In here, Hulda," Allena said, forgetting the discussion of the moment, and walking to the open bedroom door. In a moment, a huge mountain of a woman, like Juliet's nurse, came bouncing into the darkened rooms.

"They're on the strand, turn it on, turn it on," the nurse insisted, not seeming to even notice Captain Kirk, in his underwear. Her great chubby hands were all up in her silvery hair and then stretching her round face into a grimace of panic as she looked around the room, silently beseeching the furniture with her huge arms.

In a much calmer state, Allena touched the corner of a gold-painted molding, and the wall instantly shimmered and became a holographic viewscreen. A picture flashed on: Mr. Babbington, speaking directly into the camera from some ceremonial desk, beneath a silky, half-bundled flag of state on the wall behind him.

"…These precautions are intended to protect the dear child of the king, the lone survivor of the throne, the little girl of our hearts. We will be off-loading her and her royal retinue to a secure transport, and from the palace she will be taken to a place of safe-keeping."

"So you see," Allena said pensively, "the 'little girl of his heart.' They'll have me bundled off to some guarded compound by breakfast-time." Then, she shrugged, as if it were a matter of very little concern, despite the catch in her voice, "and no one will ever hear from me again."

"Trust me," Kirk said, hurriedly pulling on his black trousers and gold tunic, "you'll be in complete control of the planet by the end of the day. Possibly by lunch-time, if I can manage it."

"Oh, dear," Hulda said, looking out the window from where the three of them stood, in the center of the bedroom.

"What is it," Allena said, and then stood stock-still when she saw the vehicle approaching the balcony.

"It's that man from the feelie," the nurse said, filled with amazement.

And, in a bound, Mr. Exmoor had jumped from the edge of his own hovercraft, like a heroic buccaneer onto the lip of the balcony. With one hand on the railing, he hopped down and approached the sliding glass doors.

"I don't think it's safe for you hear, Princess Allena," the old actor said, suddenly all politeness and humility, in spite of the grandness of his entrance, as he extended a hand toward her.

"Well, I'd begun to suspect as much," she said, staring back and forth between the captain and Mr. Exmoor, and looking slightly wild-eyed.

"Wait a minute," Kirk said, gently putting his hand on her arm. "If you leave before those old men, then they're going to be the ones in charge from here on out."

Exmoor paused, and assessed the young captain, as if he'd forgotten their meeting, when the landing party first beamed-down.

"He's right," was all the older man could say, with a shrug. "Everyone will see you being escorted away like a helpless child."

"The little girl in their hearts," Allena repeated, grimacing.

"Oof," Hulda shook her head, suddenly straightening pillows on the bed, out of habit. "She hates it when people call her that!" She struck a large sleeping pillow with a walloping blow.

"I'm a hundred and ninety-two!" the princess complained.

"I came as soon as I realized the palace was falling," Exmoor said, beginning to pace back and forth across the chamber.

"That means the government transport won't be far behind," Kirk said.

"Maybe I should park my flier out of sight," Exmoor said, appraising the expression on Kirk's face, as the captain's mind went racing ahead.

"Close by," Kirk nodded. Then he turned to the older woman, who had moved on to wiping down a night-stand. "You, ma'am, I need your help."

"Me? But I must help the princess!" Nevertheless, the great huge woman began smoothing her golden uniform, with its wide white bib and apron, as if she could be ready for anything, given a moment's notice.

"Allena, go down and speak to the advisors. It's on this same floor, isn't it?" He winced at not being able to remember right away.

"Yes, but what shall I say? They'll try to send me off to some orbital prison satellite!"

"Just stall them for five minutes—ten at the most. And don't leave the palace! Agree with them, fight with them, whatever it takes." He grabbed the older woman by the elbow and she went dancing backward along behind him, out into the receiving room, and out into the corridor beyond. Exmoor, meantime, climbed back on to the edge of the balcony, and Allena went out behind Kirk and her maidservant, shaking her head.

As she hurried down the long corridor once more, possibly for the very last time, the princess tried not to look out at the vast expanse of forests and farms beyond the city promenade below. It'd never been so close before, to where she almost felt she could reach out and feel the branches and leaves, and the building continued sinking lower to the surface, gently drifting to ground.

She paused for just a moment to catch her breath, before hesitantly stepping into the chamber of the council of the royal advisors. Only Mr. Babbington and a few of the others remained, as the glowing moon streaked the night into long shadows, silently coloring the forests from black to green to gold. The council room doors hung wide open, for the first time that she could remember.

"Ah, Princess," Babbington said, standing from the far end of the table, extending a hand of greeting, as if gently summoning her into his presence. She nodded slightly, and glanced down at the rich blue carpet, but stood just inside the great doorway. Her hands clasped one another formally over the belt of her dressing gown.

"Don't be frightened, your grace," he added, with a disingenuous smile, and raising his arm out, as if she hadn't, perhaps, seen it at first.

"Mr. Babbington," Allena began, as placidly as she could manage, "I'm afraid I have no intention of leaving the royal house at present."

"But you're in very great danger, the whole building is coming down," he insisted, as if he were trying to talk sense to a very small child, though he also seemed to be holding the edge of the great conference table out of fear, himself.

"Then we should bring down all the other buildings too, for safety's sake. Don't you think?" She merely closed the neck of her quilted old dressing gown again, for reassurance.

"Well," he sputtered, more air coming out, than words. "We'll be crushed when the building loses all power, just like your brother was!"

"I am not concerned at all for myself, Mr. Babbington," Allena said, trying to imagine that she really knew what was going to happen next. "But I cannot leave the royal house when the fate of my people may still hang so precariously." She realized she was using the biggest words she knew, now, to stretch the conversation. But for what? The paintings of old men that lined the long conference room, in large dark portraits, seemed as reassuring as ever, though their heavy wooden frames rattled against the walls.

"Princess, really, I must insist—" Then, Babbington's pleas came to a sudden halt, and the whole building seemed to shudder, amidst the sound of terrible thunder, as if his plans had been carried out too well, and they were already dragging across the treetops.

"Summon the transport," one of the other advisors said aloud, to the long, empty room.

On the next floor down, behind the elevators and behind the heating and cooling systems, and behind the water pipes and the electric works, deep within the inner core of the building, in fact, Jim Kirk followed the huge round nursemaid through a small access tunnel and across a dark gantry, and into the central thruster grid. They squeezed between pipes, till they were squinting into a spray of reddish-gold energy that pulsed all the way up, and all the way down, through the central shaft of the palace. She pointed to a giant cable, and made a twisting motion with her great plump hands. He leaned further into the snaking cords and conduits, and tried to mimic her action on the largest flexible tube.

"No, no," the nursemaid shouted, as if ordering cooks 'round a kitchen, instead of yelling and waving at one of just a dozen starship captains in the entire galaxy. She could barely be heard, over the drone of the power grid. "The other way, it goes!"

But the giant, slippery black tube seemed stuck permanently in its resting place, in a corner of a metal grid that surrounded the vertical shafts of light. Gradually, he and the nursemaid became crowded sideways into the gantry. Far below, where the light sizzled out into a pink cloud, they could see the shapes of trees not much farther down.

"Not that way! This way," she shouted, indicating that Kirk had been twisting a large buzzing cable the wrong direction, unintentionally tightening it into a heavy metallic coupling. When he tried the other direction, the whole building shuddered again, as if it would crumble to bits in an instant.

"How did you learn all of this," Kirk shouted back, smiling with satisfaction, even as the tower shook and he held on for dear life. All around them, energy beams flowed like a glowing fountain, forming a hidden framework of neon rivers inside the palace. "I just wanted you to show me how I could get to the central power core, myself!"

"My husband was chief engineer for the king for one hundred-twenty years! One hundred-twenty _old _years!" she shouted back with great pride, apparently patting her heart, under the broad white bib of her dress. Then she furrowed her brow and turned her attention back to escaping once more, through the tangle of heavy cables they had squeezed themselves into. Beyond them, and inside that snaking network, the shaft of neon grid-work was becoming increasingly erratic. The reddish-yellow glow was marred by occasional bursts of pure red, or pure yellow. Each time they adjusted the energy flow, the sputtering mixture seemed to match the quaking of the building. And Jim Kirk was grateful, for once, that it was someone else's ship in trouble.

Back in the council room, two of the older advisors were already out on the balcony, searching for any sign of the transport ship. It seemed like ten minutes had passed since they called, when the building first began quaking, but relief was neither down along the shady promenades, nor up among the commercial towers, now high above. And Mr. Babbington had one hand resting on the edge of the table for stability, and not far from the escape across the balcony. Occasionally he patted the table for emphasis, still trying to convince Allena to evacuate the royal skyscraper.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," Allena said, though she felt she had said it at least five times already, in response to each of Mr. Babbington's increasingly urgent demands, that she should be the first to be led off the balcony 'to safety,' and on to the expected government hovercraft.

"But Allena," the chief advisor insisted. He winced more visibly now, every time the building shook, as if in a storm. "You are the people's most precious possession."

"The people's most precious possession is the people," Allena said, with a sense of irony that surprised even her. "And as your greatest possession is your own life, Uncle Brax, I suggest you get on to that transport as quickly as it arrives. As for me, I would rather it be said that I faced the end of my lineage with grace and dignity."

At those words, she really did have to gulp back an impulse to cry out, remembering that she was all that stood now, between the living memory of her handsome and strong father and her brilliant brother, and what could soon become the darkness of a buried past. Impatient with sentiment, she merely clenched the back of one of the boardroom chairs more tightly, holding it at arms' length, as if it were the wheel of a great sailing ship and she its unlikely captain. It steadied her when the building seemed to smash into the ground once again (though the trees were somewhat below them still, she was fairly sure). Then, a heavy piece of molding around the ceiling came crashing down to the floor with a great cloud of dust, along a side-wall, laying waste to a silver tea tray, under hundreds of pounds of old plaster.

Babbington took one look out through the great expanse of windows, and appeared stunned to see the large transport ship was finally looming off the balcony at last. It seemed that he had forgotten the princess entirely, and was half-way up the balcony railing with the other advisors by the time Allena could race to the sliding glass doors.

"Be brave, gentlemen," she called out, over the roar of the hovercraft engines. "Do try to be brave!"

But the old men had gone white with terror, and scuttled across the top of the transport toward an open hatch. Inside, infantrymen tethered to cables reached out to them, shouting over the roar of the ship's fans.

Allena glanced across the balcony, toward the near corner, where Exmoor and his cameraman were huddled, recording the entire event for his rescue show. She turned and waved once more to the departing saucer-shaped vehicle.

"Do take care," she called, standing up on her very tip-toes to be seen, as the ship roared up and away. "I know how you've worried, for the little girl in your hearts!"


	5. Chapter 5

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Five**

The soft rays of dawn produced, at first, just a few burbling cries of birds or other native animals in the tall evergreen trees all around. But soon the business of the forest was in full swing, and small crooning notes gave way to great bellows and tiny shrieks, as the shadows of night folded against the pines. Mr. Spock and Lt. Riley crouched on a ridge, high above a windowless collection of buildings in the valley below.

"We just walk in, in broad daylight?" Riley whispered, incredulously.

"Readings are spotty," the senior officer conceded, "but as their power-supplies steadily diminish, it should be possible to find a weakness in the shields around the installation."

"I'm starving," Riley complained, very quietly.

"You consumed approximately four thousand calories of protein and carbohydrates last night, Mr. Riley. Please do not exaggerate your plight," the Vulcan said, finishing with an almost Shakespearean rhythm in his otherwise disinterested voice.

"But then we walked, or _marched_, what? Fifteen kilometers!" It was clear from his tone that Mr. Riley had an entirely different scale for reckoning from the first officer's.

"Let's go," Spock said, equally as indifferent to the lieutenant and the plain light of day. He slid down the face of the ridge on his side, as if surfing down a huge wave of water, with one arm extended overhead, and a loose collection of tiny rocks and clods of dirt spreading out in all directions. His boots occasionally scrambled to keep his body roughly parallel to the cliff, as a cloud of reddish dust rose up, and his tricorder fell from his grip, till it dangled on the long black strap. Lt. Riley watched this strangely elegant surfing motion, and finally took the plunge, riding down on the seat of his pants. A look of anguish pulled at his young Irish face, as he painfully raced to the bottom.

The first officer was already half-way to the expansive compound, with his tricorder out in front of him. On its screen, he could see the strong and weak points in the force-field, flickering like tall flames around the low collection of buildings beneath the forest ridge. Riley hobbled after him, a mass of dirt and bruises, once again wiping his pants in hapless exasperation.

Soon the two _Enterprise _crewmen stood in the shadow of a taller domed building, like the housing for an old-fashioned land-based telescope, with some sort of windowless offices attached all around. Gradually, the science officer extended the palm of one hand forward, into the invisible shielding around the structures.

"Here," Spock said, showing the display on the tricorder to Riley, and they passed through very quickly, and very close together. The stoic Vulcan allowed neither shudder nor grimace, but the junior officer gave out a little gasp of discomfort as they penetrated the energy membrane, as he was briefly overcome with a sense of drowning in microwaves.

"It'd be funny if there wasn't any door," Riley said. But he might as well have kept his thoughts to himself, as they utterly failed to register with his commander, who paced around the building walls to the next section.

"You may have been correct," the Vulcan said, several minutes later as they continued around the secure complex, which seemed thoroughly unwelcoming to foot traffic. "Obviously a secure facility, though I detect less than ten life form readings inside," he added.

"Somebody has to come out—or in, eventually," Riley observed.

"I begin to doubt that we'll find the passengers of the _Amphora _inside," Spock said, seeming vaguely disgruntled.

"Beats being on a spaceship," Riley shrugged, finally taking-in the delicate nuances of the forest air.

"Perhaps if we were to create a simple disturbance of some kind," Mr. Spock said, folding his arms, and allowing his tricorder to dangle at his side. Both men stared off into the forest for a long moment, in different directions.

"They kind of worship their high energy sources, don't they?" Riley said, with the mild sarcasm of an off-worlder.

At this, the Vulcan seemed utterly caught off-guard, and he looked at the young Irishman as if he were suddenly seeing him for the first time: with a newfound respect that likewise took the lieutenant by surprise.

"What?" Riley said, warily.

"That is a remarkably insightful comment, Lieutenant," the first officer said, with a trace of amazement. And, a second later, the Vulcan was running through the long menus of protocols on his tricorder, arranging a bit of sabotage.

"But we can't blow up our only tricorder," Riley protested, slowly overcoming his pride and embarrassment.

"Regrettably, it is our only powered instrument," Spock said pensively, taking up the portable scanner and adjusting the tiny controls and touch-screen with alarming fluidity, navigating his way through some far-flung programming menus that Riley couldn't remember ever seeing before.

For good measure, they walked all the way around the blank-faced, connected buildings, till they'd reached the spot where they first passed through the force-field at its weakest point. There was no road leading up to any possible entryway, and certainly no sign directing any visitor, nor even a warning to intruders. Like the whole culture of the planet, with itself at the center of its own solar system, the compound seemed entirely inward-directed. If he had to guess, Spock would have wagered everyone on Chilion spoke the same language, and ate the same foods, all shopped at the exact same markets, all around their world, and worshipped the same gods, too: a completely controlled society.

And then, having exhausted all other possibilities, he tapped one final icon on the instrument screen, placed it on the ground, and (with the tip of his black boot) nudged it out into the grass, to the invisible barrier of the energy field. Both men half-crouched and scurried away, shielding their faces against a blast. Nothing seemed to happen, though.

"Is it supposed to short-circuit?" Riley asked, after a hushed minute passed.

"Wait," Spock said, his dark, brooding eyes switching left and right like a cat's.

And with a sudden _whoosh_, there came an assault team, down from the high ledge of the building, wearing more compact versions of the royal fly-suits, and clad in black fatigues.

"What did you do," Riley hissed, as the Chilion soldiers, four in number, cautiously poked at the tricorder on the ground, almost out of sight of the two _Enterprise _crewmen.

"I merely took your comment 'to heart,' Mr. Riley," Spock said, with a grace and charity that Riley, himself, had rarely seen. The science officer stood and straightened his blue tunic, as if he were about to step out and accept some achievement award from the armed guards. "To borrow your phrase, as they 'worship' great energy," Spock said, putting his fingertips on the corner of the building, "I adapted the tricorder to absorb as much of that energy (from the force-field) as it could hold. In effect, by denying them their energy source, I 'blasphemed' their god."

Then, finally, there was a loud "_bang!_" The scanning device had exceeded its power capacity at last, and a concussion explosion popped Riley's ears. A moment later, they stepped out in the open and found all four soldiers lying on the ground, with one or two of them moaning softly as Spock hurried to approach.

The tricorder was destroyed, of course, with no remnants of even its padded case to be found, and only a few memory panels scattered here and there. The smoking remains of the power-pack sizzled quietly a few meters away in the grass. The science officer removed the fly-suits from the unconscious guards, and Riley used their victims' own black belts to bind up their hands, though his own fingers were shaking all the while. They disabled the two additional fly-suits by snapping off the lenses at the wrists and ankles.

Mr. Spock gathered up the weapons on the belts of their quarry, and studied the little controls on his fly-suit's wristband. Then he floated up in the air, and over the edge of the rooftop. Riley followed, awkwardly, soon after.

The complex looked very different from directly above, consisting of several large buildings, hedged-in by a haphazard collection of inner rings beneath the height of the outer walls, not visible from the forest ridge, and a landing pad in the very center. Within those ring-sections, vent-openings and hatches and baffle-plates interrupted the inner walls. Eventually, Mr. Spock descended between two of the sections, with the lieutenant right behind.

They crawled into a dark vent outside, and hid their fly-suits there in the first turn of the duct-work. From there it was another series of quiet steps from corner to corner, inside the building at last. And, whether by instinct or natural attraction, Spock found a computer room, down a flight of stairs and twenty meters from the guard doors.

Tentatively, at first, he pressed a few pads on a large control panel, with no apparent results. Riley watched the door behind him, but as the moments of experimentation dragged on, the young lieutenant became more distracted by Spock's seeming indifference to the pure fear of being found out. Then, as the lieutenant's eyes wandered again, he noticed the reflection of light dancing on the floor in the next room, through another doorway.

It seemed to Riley that this tantalizing, faint movement of light and shadow was somehow connected to what Spock was doing at the alien computer controls. And as the idea came into his head, the young Earthman was slowly drawn toward that other room, as if to catch the mysterious technology in the act of doing … _something_. For a long moment he listened, one hand nearly touching the door between: eager to see if anyone was on the other side, but squeamish about being caught. Then he tried to see through the opening, leaning his head this way and that, one eye sweeping past the crack, and then the other—but seeing only those strange reflections on the polished floor, like faint, jousting dust-devils.

He turned back again, seeming to verify that Spock was inadvertently controlling some dream-like vision bouncing off the floor tiles. And finally, hearing no sound on the other side, and overcome by a fierce curiosity, Riley stepped into the next room.

All that would come out of his mouth, as he stood there aghast, was a sort of "_whu…_" noise, under his breath. And then, Mr. Spock rushed in behind him. His mouth fell open, too, for just a moment, before he recovered himself. He was caught off-guard, and automatically reached for his tricorder, which should have been draped around his torso, on a long black strap. But that was gone now, of course.

There before them, on a huge war-room 3-D chamber in the air, was the _Enterprise_, in fierce battle with a handful of cannon-ships, like the larger ram-jet they'd previously blasted and brought on board for study. But, faced with multiple attackers, all of the same mysterious sort, the fight was not going well.

Riley glanced side-long at the Vulcan commander and, for a split second, it seemed he was half-mouthing a series of commands, as if he could save their ship from here at the other end of the star-cluster. It was a hopeless task, as most of her shields were already down.

As the cannon-ships closed in, it became clear that they were watching the struggle from a viewscreen on the attacker's command vessel, as it slowly descended from above, relative to the great saucer section of the Federation starship below. Riley and Spock could see various gashes in her hull, from stem to stern, and an unusual amount of fire and smoke and even bits of debris coming out of the shuttle bay, from a couple of nasty hits. But there was nothing they could do to stop the loss of the _Enterprise_, on which they depended for every certainty.

"Should we get back and report to the captain, Mr. Spock?"

A hardness of attitude came over the Vulcan now, as he resorted to the clarity of command, and a remorseless desire to scramble for some kind of position, however unlikely.

"Negative, Mr. Riley, that would be pointless at this time," he practically snarled, though he recognized at once that his sudden change in posture and tone betrayed some anxiety. Instantly, he straightened again, and became more everyday in his manner and speech. "We must continue work on the computer system here, to see if we can contact the ship, or even subvert the attack force using their own—"

But it was too late. They could see the _Enterprise's _great engines had gone to a dim, idling tumble, in the energy swirl at the tips of the warp nacelles. They were barely moving at all, as if the ship had simply gone to sleep. Meantime, nearly a dozen cannon-ships were latching themselves on to the under-side of her hull here and there, like nesting, long-tailed bats. Slowly, slowly, the starship slid out of view, born away to meet the fate of the _Amphora_, and however many ships before her: to fuel this unknown world, in all its glory and ambition.

"Hold it," a stern voice said, from the doorway to the computer room. "Hands in the air."

The voice came from an outpost commander, a grizzled, no-nonsense type of man, pointing a ferocious-looking blaster at them, which seemed to have a sort of small black, swollen artichoke-shaped device for a muzzle. Slowly, Spock and Riley raised their hands, as the _Enterprise _was hauled away on the screen behind them.

Also that morning first morning, by a new decree, all the great towers of the floating city were brought down exactly as low as the royal house, as a safety precaution. In her announcement, Allena explained that this would make them safer in the event of any unforeseen evacuation, if further power cuts became inevitable. Volunteers in work crews began setting up tents and food and gathering centers in the parks below, whole tent cities, as "negotiations continued for alternative sources of energy."

"Is this what you call 'negotiations'?" Jim Kirk asked, as they huddled in the back of a long black, private hovercraft, and she gently tried to peel off his Starfleet insignia, from the front of his tunic.

"Yes," she said, slyly. "I'm going to chain you up to me, and send this back to the… Federonians… as a sign of my cruel intentions."

"You'll just make the other captains jealous," he said quietly, kissing the back of her neck.

"Why? Are they all madly infatuated with you, too?"

"All the Federonians are."

"Well, there, see?" she said, smoothing out his captain's uniform here and there, "we're not so different after all." She turned to face forward now, primly, as if everything had become clear and mundane again.

They watched as the enormous skyscrapers descended from high above, one by one, till every tree in sight billowed gently under their contrails.

She reached for a little control panel on the armrest by her side. Two viewscreens came to life in the back of the seats up front, and they watched until the news showed the royal counselors fleeing the palace, while Allena stood bravely on the balcony, waving them off, even as the building shuddered.

"Oh, I'm bored with that. It's all they show," she complained grandly, as if her own heroism had become tedious to her now.

"You ought to thank Mr. Exmoor," Kirk said, still admiring the way his camera crew had thrown mud on the cabal of men who'd been running the planet for so long.

"He's quite a dear old thing, really," Allena sighed. "You know, people treated him like a sort of a clown for years and years—after he got famous for sort of playing my father on an old feelie on the strand."

"He played your father? In some kind of history?"

"Well, not _exactly_ my father," she said, trying to catch the wild generalization before it raced out of her hands entirely. "You know, my father ordered the expansion into space—and got us started flying between the stars, as a whole planet, really, it was all his idea."

"And then he was killed," Kirk remembered. It seemed to him that she'd said something about it while he was trying to read the satellite overhead, the night before.

"Yes," she said, her voice going husky for a moment. "Anyway, eighteen years later—'old' years later, give or take—there was Mr. Exmoor, and his own version of a royal court, flying hither and yon, between the stars, confronting all sorts of space-dangers, every week."

Eighteen "old years," Kirk now felt comfortable in assuming, was about three standard Earth years.

"I suppose," she said, a bit wistfully, "it was a kind of therapy for the whole culture, coming so soon after my father's death. Keeping the legend alive, you might say."

"And now he's some sort of news-person?"

"Oh, my, no—well, going by modern standards, he may be, in the loosest possible sense," Allena rolled her eyes, lamenting the current state of her own planet's journalism. "He just puts on these shows, these feelies, about real-life emergencies now. Full of real-life drama. What is it they say? _'So real, you'll think it's real.'_" She looked away, out at the passing scenery, as if embarrassed.

"I see."

"But people treated him as a joke, you know, for years," she said, suddenly feeling very sorry for the older man. "I suppose it's perfectly natural, don't you? We outgrow our need for mourning over past events. I mean, eventually, you don't need that kind o therapy anymore, do you?"

"And now he's madly in love with you?"

"Is he? I really hadn't any idea. But I am, after all, 'the princess of people's hearts,'" she smiled weakly, though the whole topic had exhausted her good spirits.

"Does he know he's sort of a father-figure to you?"

"Well, he's not really—I mean, the space-man Mr. Exmoor played on the strand was a _terrible _womanizer, and he defied all sorts of orders from his top, top commanders in the faraway Space Patrol, during all of his terribly dangerous adventures." She paused, glanced up at the head-liner inside the hovercraft, and then out into distance for a moment. "On the other hand," she said at last, "perhaps he _is _a sort of father figure to me…"

At this, Kirk felt a pang of jealousy, though it seemed silly to him.

"Well," she sighed, as she prepared to launch into a lesson on local history, "I suppose I mentioned the concubines and mistresses," she said, smoothing the sleeves of her big, blousy white sweater. "And then there was the military…"

"That supposedly helped to kill him?"

"Oh my goodness, you _were _listening last night!" she beamed, in spite of the subject matter. That night he had seemed to her to be more interested in some blinking star overhead, than in her own sad childhood. "Well, before we moved out between the stars, fueled by the coils of Orion, that's what we call them, the energy discs around most of our collapsed stars… But before all of that, we had some quite hostile neighbors, in our old system, the Mahlons... which was part of the reason we had to move on, of course, to leave our enemies behind. But, at one point, my father actually dared to negotiate with them. And this was totally against the principles of our warrior chieftains. And, then, there was a totally botched invasion, which brought disgrace to the military," she added, as if he surely must have heard about that by now.

"I see," Kirk said, taking her long, slender fingers in his hand, to comfort her.

"But you don't think he's _madly _in love with me—do you?"

"Who?"

"Why, Mr. Exmoor, of course!"

"Well, you have to allow a man to have some kind of dreams," Kirk said, looking straight ahead, as if he didn't care at all.

"Ah, now you're _jealous_!" she said, as though it was the 100th flaw he'd exhibited in just the last few minutes.

"How could I be jealous?" Kirk reasoned, trying not to sound annoyed. "I'll probably be fifty trillion miles away next week!"

"Well, I didn't mean to scare you off," she said, pretending to be surprised at his romantic cowardice, and looking at him in utter disbelief.

"That's perfectly all right," he answered, as if it were certainly _not _all right. "I understand, you want to have someone to romance you, in fact you want to have two _different_ men compete over you, I'd say. You want to be all grown-up, now that you're in charge. And having a couple of drooling men following you around just gives you that little bit of extra confidence that you might possibly need, the next time some Councilman or other tries to push you around."

"That's not true—I stood up to them all by myself!"

"But I chased them out of the palace, with power cut-outs!"

"You caused a great deal of damage to the royal palace! And though you certainly don't admit to it, you happen to be the very reason my entire world is falling apart right now!" They rode in silence for a moment, while their tempers cooled a bit.

"Your planet has been stealing ships—for all I know, killing their passengers and crew, for years, Allena." He tried to maintain his temper, but something told him things were doomed to go from bad to worse. "All those ships destroyed, to give you these outrageous fireworks, to satisfy your sense of… exceptionalism!" he said, dredging up a phrase from the history books, and waving at the rocket-like thrusters under all the lowering towers. "And to help you run away from your enemies, no matter what the cost!"

"I'm trying to put a stop to that," she said quietly, folding her arms and looking away: suddenly very sad and very weary of the whole thing.

"Well, you've got me and Exmoor to thank for that," he said.

"And he'll still be here next week," she muttered, dismayed at his proud claim on her, for services rendered, as she looked out the window. Gradually, more and more buildings were roaring down against the forests. It was as though the whole planet were being subjected to dozens of blow-torches, all at once. So far, though, the trees were merely swaying around under the collective blast.

"He's just an old actor," Kirk muttered.

"Who's to say he can't be a great leader? Actors are the most empathetic people you'll ever meet!"

"He's old—he could be dead next week!" Captain Kirk's own romantic jealousy had reached its peak, or so it seemed to the beautiful brunette.

And then, after just a second of introspection, Allena threw her body across the back seat, and started kissing and trying to restrain the young starship captain, as if she were suddenly determined to make him stay or, at least, to annoy him to death with her exuberance.


	6. Chapter 6

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Six**

"I believe it's safe to say," Mr. Babbington sighed, taking control again after a pause in the royal counselors' meeting, "that Captain Kirk is becoming a very bad influence on Princess Allena." He slowly brought his palm down on the desk in a dark lobby-like room for emphasis, in another government building half-way across the city, but likewise hovering near the treetops. The room was dark with heavy curtains and dimly lit paintings of timeless landscapes and dramatic hunting scenes.

"We are receiving word now from our scientists," a quavering old advisor said, very slowly, in the middle of the room full of couches and chairs, "that's not the only problem. The very moon itself has become dangerously unstable in its orbit, after the cutoff of plasma energy by the _Enterprise_. It's cooling in an irregular manner that suggests inner-core… fragmentation, and a new center of gravity, after long-term heat damage, as the molten core bleeds into off-center caverns."

"It's not just that captain," another white-haired old gentleman piped up, as if the comment about the moon had gone by, entirely unnoticed. "It's that fool Exmoor."

"He can be dealt with very simply," a third elder grumbled, hunched and sagging in a very upright padded chair.

Mr. Babbington leaned back, and though his brow lowered over his dark eyes, his lips spread wide in a strange smirk, and he nodded, as if this latest development was in confirmation of his overall thesis.

"Well, it won't be but a matter of days before we're more powerful than we've ever been before," he said, philosophically. "Surely, by then, we can correct the unplanned cooling in the moon's core."

"If we're successful, restoring power. The _Enterprise _is no peaceful vacation vessel," another counselor warned.

"Their shields are no match for our gravity beam," Babbington said, with a bureaucratic drone of confidence that would normally brush aside every doubt. "Everything is in place for the adoption of the invading ship into the plasma harvest, and everything will be back to normal here before our own last reserves are exhausted."

"We ought to have a back-up plan, Babbington," another counselor warned. "By the time the _Enterprise _is fully adopted into the harvest, our existing power reserves will be down to less than five percent! Five percent of _reserves_, not five percent of normal!"

"Gentlemen," the chairman chuckled, waving aside the last dire complaint. "We've been at this for most of our lives, haven't we? And—think about this—it's also the first time we haven't had to send out a scout ship, to bring back a fresh helper-vessel. And with the tremendous resources of the _Enterprise_, we'll be far more powerful than ever before— it's Fate, gentlemen, and a glorious new day for our world," he added, warmly. "The only question is: does the princess want to be part of it, or not?"

"And what about the two prisoners, at the north-forest station?" It was another raspy, reedy voice, from somewhere in the midst of all of the couches and chairs. All the stuffed furniture glowing in golden lamp light made for an atmosphere like a crowded gentlemen's club, surrounded by ornamental rugs underfoot, and ancient flags on darkened walls. And all around this last speaker, elderly men were falling asleep: their heads nodding down until their chins were lost in folds of scarves and shirts and dark, elegant jackets. Meanwhile, sprites of fusion energy winked and crackled in a large ornamental fireplace on one side of the large room, opposite a bank of French-style doors, covered in heavy green draperies.

"Oh, some sort of fly-suit accident, I suppose," Babbington said, thinking of the "official" fate of Mr. Spock and the young lieutenant, in the north-forest station. "They're not going anywhere. You can rest assured of that."

A warm trickle of fluid dripped hurriedly from Lt. Uhura's delicate ear, into her dark hair, as she lay gasping for breath on the bridge of the USS _Enterprise_, as they were slowly towed through space. She could hear the tut-tutting of the ship's computer voice describing the various levels of damage throughout the ship, after the lost battle with the cannon scouts, and the same small ships had clamped onto their hull.

"_AG reading is now plus three-point-five,"_ the computer said, as if reminding the crew of some forgotten dilemma on board the great, captured starship, even as their hearts and lungs were crushed within their chests. _"Automatic re-start of artificial gravity system has failed; re-start will be attempted again at oh-two-hundred. Readings indicate zero air pressure in shuttle bay, and bay door failure. Repair crews are not responding to reports of hull breach on decks four, six, ten, and fourteen. Impulse drive has been rendered inoperative. Engineering has not responded to request for damage report."_

And so the computer announcements went on, at once full of detail, but also missing the key point of the list of sudden insults: that a swarm of attack ships had poured out of the sensor-blindness between collapsed stars; and that every crewman on the _Enterprise_ had collapsed down on to whatever deck they'd been nearest, where they lay straining for breath. It was just as it had been when they first entered the star cluster, nearly three days before, except that the first attack had only lasted a moment.

On the main viewscreen, the blinding swirl of a quasar-like disc ahead had grown till nothing else fit. Somewhere in the center would be the tiny black singularity with the weight of thousands of suns. The swirling fires at the outer, curled edges of the plasma disc burned in every conceivable color, gradually turning whiter and brighter toward the inner, black horizon, as the space rubble roared against itself, nearing the speed of light, ripping itself to shreds and fire.

Slowly, when her arm had nearly stopped throbbing from the last attempt, Uhura used her long fingernails and her hand to allow her arm to crawl up from the deck. Slowly, with just one hand, she pulled at the grate that covered the circuitry below her station. Around her, she could hear the rough, shallow breathing of her fellow crewmen, and the slow dying sound of a yeoman who had landed on her stomach, across the circular bridge. Here and there, some of the men had been shakily hoisting their immense new body weight up, to reach their own control panels: Chekov at the weaponry; and Sulu crawling back now and then, inching closer to the navigation panel at the helm, from the command chair. A red-shirted engineering lieutenant was lying motionless, with his chest going down the step to the center of the command deck, his head down, a dark shade of purple, and a motionless mask of anguish.

With great effort, Uhura slowly turned her own pounding head away from her shipmates, to the dim glow of energy pulses behind the access panel over her right shoulder. Her fingers felt like heavy claws, and not her own at all, as she scraped at the bottom corner of the grate: the only thing (besides her station chair) within reach. Occasionally she simply had to stop and gasp for breath—the weight of her breasts on her heart seeming impossible to bear. But, if she rolled on her side, she feared she might just tip all the way over onto her stomach and stop breathing altogether, like the crewman across the empty center-seat from her.

So she scratched lightly at the corner of the circuitry covering, pausing occasionally to breathe. It took all her concentration and effort, and for the first time in her career, the rectangular panel simply refused to come loose at all. She had to admit, she didn't know exactly what she'd do once she got the panel off—if it would ever budge—but she had this fierce, undeniable conviction that it was the only thing she could reach, and one of the few things on board the crippled _Enterprise _she knew she might control.

Now and then she had to collapse and stare at the domed ceiling overhead, like the inside of some cathedral, until the red pulsing inside her eyes shrank back to just the warning lights at the fore and aft of the command level. And then, as near to refreshed as she could get, she twisted her heavy head and started scratching at the metallic rectangle again, producing the tiniest abrasive noise, barely discernable over her own desperate, shallow breathing.

Barely a meter beyond her own knee-high black boots, a science department lieutenant was trying to crane his neck to see what the scratching noise was, and what Uhura was doing. And in a minute or two, he began rearranging himself with great difficulty, his arms and legs, to do likewise. To say that neither of them knew exactly what they were doing, or where this might lead them, would have been needlessly cruel.

A high-backed padded chair came crashing down at the helm. It was Mr. Chekov's, where he had tried to hoist himself up to the controls. Now, it seemed, they would certainly be without their weapons as the _Enterprise _parked helplessly above the swirling, blinding rings of the singularity.

It was, apparently, church day on Allena's planet, and the first such day since the unexpected death of her brother, the prince. As such, the royal suite was frantic with activity, not the least of which centered on whether or not the princess would wear one of her new high-necked, quilted dressing gowns, which had just arrived from the draper's.

"Malcolm always wore whatever he pleased," Allena said, as three different lady ministers stood before her with a choice of more traditional, gauzy vestments. "I certainly don't want to put myself below him—besides, he was the most irreligious person I ever met!"

"Everyone is irreligious to their sister," one of the priestesses said, becoming impatient with the young woman. "Sisters always think themselves the most religious of all, and that's precisely the problem we have right now!"

"I don't think it's a problem at all," Allena said quietly, to herself, remaining perfectly calm in the face of the growing disapproval of the three older women. "I shall wear the white one, thank you very much. You may go now."

There was an extremely awkward silence, as Hulda, the great fat maid, reluctantly stepped forward with a new white quilted dressing gown. In just a minute, Allena had slipped into that, and it was tightly fastened around her waist. Just like the old pale mauve garment Allena had worn for years, this new one billowed out around her calves, revealing a wisp of sheer undergarment that actually did look a bit like the robes of the other women, from a distance.

"Hulda, could I have the black belt off that one," she said, gesturing to another quilted dressing gown on the bed. The belt was quickly undone, and replaced the white one around her waist.

A single great sapphire was hung from her neck, on a lattice-work of diamonds, and more gems were quickly woven into her hair. As calm as before, and with the other women almost reluctantly falling in line behind her, she left the great gold-framed tri-fold mirror and walked to the outer doors of her suite.

Captain Kirk was waiting for her, out in the hallway. His look of surprise was all the encouragement she needed, and she could barely keep from smiling.

"And how are you, this fine morning, Captain James T. Kirk?"

"Late for church," he answered, falling in alongside her, as the older women trailed behind, pretending not to notice as he took her arm.

"Yes, it's going to be a great vexation," she moaned, though she allowed a little smile.

"I seem to recall you promised me my party's communicators," he said, as casually as he could manage.

"Oh, yes, I'm terribly sorry, it's just been pandemonium," she said, briefly covering the middle of her face in embarrassment. "As soon as we're finished this afternoon, you have my word."

"And I haven't heard back from two of my men yet, if you can find out anything about that," he said, growing serious.

"Of course, you know I will," she said, becoming agitated at all the obligations being thrust upon her.

"And about yesterday, in the car," he said, under his breath, now, "I'd prefer it if you kept that to yourself."

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, her voice snapping like a huge rubber band. She stopped suddenly in the long hallway, and nearly causing a collision of female church elders behind her. "Why must all the Great Lovers have so many rules about everything?"

There was an awful silence, as the retinue pondered the meaning and the import of that outburst.

"I don't have rules, do I?" Kirk looked perfectly innocent, all of a sudden.

"I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about me!" she said, smiling wickedly, and gliding forward again, the tips of her satin slippers kicking out softly in front of her white gown, like a ballerina's, as the other women scurried to catch up again. "It's utterly maddening. What do I wear, where do I stand, what do I say, what do others expect of me? You can't imagine, going from being absolutely useless around here, to having, well, I suppose, a much more ornamental form of uselessness, at least."

"Maybe it's time you started making your own rules," Kirk said. And then he imagined one of the older, clerical women behind his back quietly slipping a dagger between his ribs, for his helpfulness.

"Yes, well," Allena half laughed, to herself. "The _planet_ may wend its way through the galaxy, making up its own rules as it goes along. But figureheads like me will probably always be ground to dust by the few rules we do have, among ourselves. For the reassurance of the people, I suppose." She said this last part with a quiet, taut sadness, though her lips were spread apart in an ever-gracious smile.

And so, Kirk concluded, there would be no grand revolution today. They rode to the great, floating cathedral in approximate silence, just the merest checking and double-checking in anxious, half-whispered tones, as you might hear before a wedding or funeral or some other great ritual. But whatever Jim Kirk had been expecting, he was unprepared for the spectacle to come.

"Oh, do you have a robe, or something, for the captain?" Allena inquired, very politely, of the elder ladies.

An uncomfortable silence, and a disapproving crush of eyebrows, fell in the shining black hovercraft, as it flew in under the cathedral, and then rose up, into a secure parking area. Clearly, the lady prelates and priestesses had not intended for the captain to be seen, or heard. Kirk himself was not invested either way, and merely watched as the honor guard outside lined up for Allena to step out of the car.

He had to resist the urge to inspect the troops, as she strode in and he followed behind. All eyes were on Allena, anyway. His main perception, though, was of a band of intelligent, but awe-struck and even sentimental young men, in their black and crimson tunics, which looked far more fierce and grave than the young faces atop their rigid collars. As usual, he could never quite tell if military designers were trying to diminish their troops' humanity, or negate it, with their severe uniforms.

The air in the first antechamber had the stuffiness of heavy fabrics, and the weariness of much waiting. This latter sense was echoed in the faraway rustling of bodies on pews, and the occasional distant cough in the grand sanctuary, somewhere down the darkened hallways.

He had the strange feeling that he was in a dream, and had suddenly been thrust into a marriage with a girl he'd only known a day or so. There she was, in a satiny-white gown, a flock of matrons behind her, pensively waiting, while she gathered her thoughts. He resisted the nightmarish compulsion to check his pockets for some sort of a ring he knew would not be there.

At last, they walked down a pillared stone hall and, after a few twists and turns and half-staircases, emerged by a vast altar. It was carpeted in the same blue of the palace, and black stone pillars framed the backdrop, joined by a long, swooping swag of velvet, in a tyrannical shade of red. And, out before them in the pews, stood thousands of parishioners, waiting politely for the princess to take the tall black throne at the center of the rear wall. Another thousand or so remained seated: the elderly, who had become divorced from one or more of their own limbs, as they hobbled through the final stages of life. Meantime, in her white gown, Allena seemed startled by the series of events that had landed her in the post of a living royal saint.

Kirk imagined the place would look entirely different if their world were orbiting a bright yellow sun like his own, back home. Here, the crystal panels that loomed along the walls and overhead, in the ornate ceiling, were bathed in projections of dark flowing images like dark rushing waters, and long white crackling hairs of lightning, which never quite began, and never quite resolved themselves, either.

"You may be seated," a familiar voice intoned quietly, from a lectern before them, once the princess had taken the black stone seat of power, and Kirk had quietly seated himself as innocuously as he could, on a bench in a far corner: almost hidden beneath that great fold of red velvet overhead.

Kirk looked carefully at the back of the man in a zebra-like striped cassock, and realized that it was Mr. Babbington himself, the chief advisor to the royal family. Allena was very still, and stared straight ahead, as if the great doors at the far opposite end of the sanctuary would slowly come closer, if only she could wish it fervently enough, so she could rush out the everyday exit to freedom before anyone could possibly grab her back. Her spine arched slightly, like a sport-fisherman's, as if to reel-in the common means of escape, though it refused to budge.

"Open your Scripture to book one, chapter one," Babbington said, doing likewise himself, with a huge book on the lectern before him. There was a sort of massive rustling as books were being paged through quietly. "Verse one: In the end of all that there is, there shall be the thrusting together of many things, the like and the unlike, the good and the evil. And all, in their terrible opposition, shall come to a day of reckoning. And all things shall be transformed, and the gulf between what men think and what they say shall be resolved through great power."

"_Bless'd be the power," _the huge assembly said, quietly, as they had many thousands of times before, with quiet reassurance.

"And, if I may direct you… to the very close of our great book," Mr. Babbington said, attempting to flip the entire contents of his scripture all at once, quietly across from the front, over to the back. "Book sixty-six, chapter twenty-eight, the final verses, "And this is how it all began. For men believed themselves good, in spite of their evil, and their light did shun the darkness, and darkness forbade the light. So the world began, in perfect twilight, and was born to brave the cold, in fires of the heart; and born to brave the damned, in fires of furious light, and fires of frozen dark."

"_Bless'd be the power,"_ the congregation said softly, the thousands as one, echoing against the high stone pillars and walls, as images of lightning crackled silently across the great cathedral walls all around.

Well, Kirk thought, his Iowa politeness still more or less intact: at least it has a sort of internal logic. But he also knew now: the princess wasn't joking around about the dilithium crystals; nor about the matter-anti-matter warp drive, and how it seemed to echo their dreadful end, in the beginning of their book of social wisdom. He glanced over at her again from the bench in the corner of the altar. She seemed almost as pale as her new dressing gown itself. The small diamonds in her long necklace shone proudly above that dark, huge sapphire, glinting like the deepest arctic ice against her heart. And if the dark black throne behind her were dripping in icicles itself, Allena could not have looked more as though she was freezing where she sat.

"Now, how many of us," Babbington wondered softly, "have felt the sin of contradiction, in our own lives?"

At this, a quiet, knowing chuckle drifted through the great hall. Mr. Babbington seemed utterly relaxed, even beneficent, as he patiently surveyed the vast ocean of worshippers.

"Prince Malcolm was, of course, full of contradictions," he said at last, glancing down and then up to the domes of crackling light in the ceiling. "He was brash, and kind; serious and whimsical. And under his leadership we travelled much farther, even, than under his father. He rode astride the galloping steed that was our fate." And, like any good speaker, Mr. Babbington could barely resist the urge to pause and listen to his own musical words, as they echoed back to him again. "His contradictions were like the positive and negative charge on a great battery. They jolted us into action. And now he's gone."

"As you've probably noticed," he resumed, after a reverential pause, "we have a guest today. Captain Kirk, stand up and let them see you."

A strange, malevolent stomping of feet began out in the congregation, once Kirk had fully stood up and gotten out from behind the protective velvet swag, and onto the blue carpet of the altar. Babbington turned and nodded, and Kirk turned to sit again, on the bench. Allena merely glanced down, in a show of respect. But paired with the jagged rhythms of lightning quietly raging along the walls from the altar back to the far end of the sanctuary, the thunderous stomping noise created an even stranger, barbaric feeling in the holy arena.

"Of course, one day we'll find a new star to revolve around. We'll benefit from its warmth, and from the light," Babbington mused. "Our crops will grow better, and our children will play out of doors. And, thanks to Prince Malcolm and his legion of scientific experts, sometimes we have already gotten to interact with local breeds of humanoids, and even enjoyed… the possibility of trade and alliance."

"But, for now, to our spirits, those same local stars," the chief advisor to the royal house was saying, still as if he were caught up in a daydream, "are like some addictive potion, creating a kind of… complacency in our blood." And then, suddenly, Mr. Babbington was swept into some invisible wave of irony, like all men when they realize their folly. "When we're dependent, and locked in orbit around one single star or some picturesque double-star, or even a doomed and blazing supernova, well… bless'd be the power than can break the shackles of our own momentary weakness, and hurl us away once more… to freedom and self-determination!" In those final words his voice rose, nearly, to a shout.

"_Bless'd be the power."_

I'm going to have to read that book one of these days, Kirk told himself, as Babbington glanced downward, for some scriptural endorsement of his words. Then, he looked up, and spoke with an eerie, faraway look in his eyes.

"Our own ingenuity, and perseverance as a race, provides the fruits of moral gladness that sustain us in the darkness between those stars. And our children play in the warmth, not just of our scientific advances, but of our dedication… to a _principle_: that we must be the freest people in the galaxy, and, perhaps the whole Universe. Making our own way. Finding light where others knew only darkness."

Then, the combined stomping of feet, multiplied by thousands upon thousands on the cathedral floor seemed to shake the whole floating building, threatening to send it crashing down into the wooded parkland below, out of sheer patriotic fervor.

"And yet, there is the contradiction," Babbington smiled, once the noise had died-down. "For we are a simple people, simple… pioneers of the stars. Now, of course, we're dependent on the energy roaring 'round ancient, long-dead stars. Energy that would disappear and be useless, without us. We cling to this reverential, redemptive power. And that energy, that life-force, would spiral down and never be seen again, never be of any good to any one, were it not for the ingenuity of Prince Malcolm and his father before him, to put it to some life-sustaining use!"

"Don't let your light," he said, quietly but intensely, "be swallowed up by some strange, alien belief we know nothing of… we might encounter along the way, along the path of freedom. Don't let your white-hot energy be poured into the darkness of something… out of reach. We have an obligation to use that energy that's been set before us. And to burn bright! To turn away from irresistible, dark gravity, and live our own lives as Prince Malcolm, and King Jonoff would have us do: in absolute freedom."

"_Absolute freedom," _the congregation called back, with great conviction, and the stamping of their feet raged like multiplied drums of battle.

"May the full blessings of power and freedom be upon you, as you go through this day, and the week ahead," Babbington called, trying to be heard over the great storm of noise, and raising his arms up in benediction, as the projections of lightening lashed out from behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Seven**

Lieutenant Kevin Riley sat on the floor, looking glum. He was imagining that Mr. Spock, on the floor next to him, was secretly trying to hypnotize the armed guard that sat across from them at a desk, in an office chair. The Vulcan stared silently at a spot just off the guard's right shoulder, even as the guard himself kept his eyes fixed on the strange, pointed ears of the senior starship officer, seeming vaguely offended by the artful quirk of nature. Riley's own eyes flickered back and forth occasionally, to see who was winning this silent battle, though it had seemed to be going on for an awfully long time.

And so it went, for at least two hours, in the forest outpost. And whether it was still day, or if night had already fallen, Riley couldn't tell anymore. Their guard, far from becoming entranced or stupefied, actually seemed to be growing more and more angry as the hours passed. When the commander of the post stuck his head in, to check on the prisoners, the guard issued only a terse little growl, as if he were a cat hiding under a bed. He hadn't signed up for babysitting duty, Riley supposed.

But Riley was quite sure he could sense something in the air, between the Vulcan and the guard, and that some bizarre energy was pouring out of Mr. Spock, through his eyes, across the room, eroding his target's very will to live. And finally, indeed, something seemed about to snap. The guard let out a little choked cough, and seemed to chafe inside his stiff tunic. His whole body seemed to be itching, if Riley was any judge, and the guard's own eyes were making little darting motions, as if watching a few invisible flies, without wanting to be seen watching, even so. Then he seemed to recover his steadfast composure, for another minute. Mr. Spock, of course, remained frighteningly impassive the whole time.

The tension was becoming unbearable, as Riley's eyes secretively went from one man to the other, with little detours to the floor or the corner of the desk. And after all those hours, during which Kevin Riley expected some zombie-like transformation in the guard, his office chair suddenly _whirred _back from the desk, and the guard flew at them in a rage, his fists in the air.

"Hey, cut that out," he snarled, and gave Riley himself a harsh kick in the boots as he towered over the young lieutenant, astonishingly, as if the young man had caused all the trouble himself. In a second, Mr. Spock had sprung across the young Irishman, flipping the legs of the guard out from under him. And just as suddenly, he had the alien weapon at the guard's own throat.

"What is the mildest setting on this weapon," Spock demanded, very quietly, holding the black, artichoke-like muzzle against the guard's temple. It seemed the guard was indicating, with a nod, that it was already set at its least lethal level and, without seeming to give the matter any thought, the Vulcan gave the downed guard a quick, efficient nerve pinch on his neck. They left him, unconscious, on the office floor.

"I _thought_ you were up to something," Riley whispered knowingly to Spock, as they peered out the office door, and quickly made their way back the way they'd come.

"In fact, Lieutenant, I simply waited. Your own human imagination was a most sufficient offense to antagonize, and cause a confrontation, thus luring him into a vulnerable position."

"Huh. Will I get a commendation?" Riley wondered, imagining a great assemblage on the _Enterprise_, in his honor, when he eventually got her free. Then, that stuffy, impossibly beautiful woman in xeno-archeology would fall madly in love with him, and…

"You're doing it again, Lieutenant," Spock said, with a quiet tone of reprimand, seeing a faraway look in the junior officer's eye.

"What? 'Imagining?' What?" Riley pleaded to know, but the Vulcan was walking briskly, and ignoring him completely. When they reached the doorway to the computer room where they'd been caught, Spock couldn't resist one more look inside. He bent over the control panel once again, and Riley tentatively peered into the next room again, at the big holographic viewscreen in that apparent conference room. A jagged rush of static, and black bars like horizontal lightening, flashed across the screen.

Then, as if Spock had finally broken the code, and it were being managed by a life-long expert in this particular computer system, the visual chaos resolved itself into a picture. It was, at first, the _Amphora_, the cruise ship, nearly black in its own shadow against the white-hot plasma around a collapsed star. Then, apparently, a view inside, with motionless, lifeless bodies flattened against the decks, in corridors, around swimming pools, in vast, elegant dining halls, where the plasma-light glared through long observation windows like Judgment Day, and everyone lay inside, as if lowered in the most abject prayer, flattened with humility with their noses in the carpet. Except that they weren't praying.

Spock stood looking over Riley's shoulder now, as the computer record dipped into file after file, revealing the fate of the tourists and crew-beings on board, in their final days: typical old people, typical families, and a lot of broken cocktail glasses and deck chairs. Blackened tongues protruding from blackened lips, their jewelry cutting into their long-dead flesh.

Riley backed out, and squeezed around the Vulcan in the doorway, who seemed to be burning the images into his brain, for lack of a tricorder. Then the lieutenant heard the scurry of boots coming down the hall, and hastily grabbed Spock's forearm.

Spock dove across the computer room floor, and by the time he'd stopped skidding on his shoulder, his head was barely out the door, and he was firing quickly and efficiently with the alien blaster, till there was silence in the hall once more.

"By my count," he said, getting up and straightening his blue tunic with no show of triumph, "we should be free, momentarily, of the guard staff. Assuming the men we subdued outside were the same ones coming back just now, of course."

Spock and Riley found the obscure heating vent that got them inside, and the military fly-suits where they'd left them in a corner of the vents. They strapped them on, and were on their way: flying back across the endless pine forest.

"Then, at the last possible moment, we reversed polarity, and escaped certain death!"

There was an appreciative release of long-held breath from the two security guards, and Yeoman Tamura, as they sat listening to Exmoor describing the plot of one of his old feelies, spun out anew for a fresh audience. On the other side of the room, Jim Kirk and Dr. McCoy were engaged in a quiet discussion.

"Jim, you're painting a picture of a world in complete denial of the facts."

"I know," the captain said, as he looked despairingly out the bank of windows at the city, floating pointlessly, just above the trees. "And Allena says she knows nothing about the way they 'harvest' their energy."

"Well, it sounds like push is coming to shove in a mighty big hurry," McCoy concluded, turning in his armchair, to gaze out at the swaying treetops. "That's when this turns into a rescue mission, I guess."

"Worse than that," Kirk sighed. "Hundreds of millions of people live on this world. In a matter of days, they'll freeze to death, without the heat of their moon. We can't rescue them all."

"When the _Enterprise _comes back," McCoy said, putting on a show of confidence, "we can organize relief centers and make sure there's plenty of clean food and water…"

"But we can't just… fire phasers into the moon all night and day," Kirk said quietly, feeling that nightmarish sense of unbearable compromise coming their way. An uneasy silence fell on the two men, even as the security officers and the yeoman laughed at something Exmoor had just said, across the room, looking comically hopeless, while Jim Kirk wore a smaller, more personal version of the same expression.

Just then there was a simultaneous _whirring _sound, accompanied by the sudden scuffing of boots on the balcony. He turned to see, at long last, Mr. Spock and Lt. Riley land in the military fly-suits. Instantly, the security men hurried to help them out of the insect-like contraptions. Mr. Spock began his report the moment he saw the captain approaching from across the elegant living room.

"The _Enterprise _has been captured," he announced, without any flourish or preamble, though Kirk himself stopped dead in his tracks to listen. "From the ongoing emergency status here in the city, it is logical to assume she will soon be forced into the same slavery as the _Amphora_, before she was destroyed." The other crewmen were gathering around to listen to Spock's account, and Exmoor trailed along behind them.

"We also saw computer records revealing the fate of the passengers and crew of that ship, as victims of the same gravity beam used against us. However, for them, the results proved fatal."

"I've got to get to Allena," Kirk said, still recovering from the shock, which seemed to him like some great bandage being ripped off his soul, some foolish illusion of comfort and reassurance torn off to reveal a painful wound underneath.

"Jim," McCoy interrupted, "from what you've said, she really has nothing to do with this at all. How can she stop it?" But there was something else in his voice, a kind of harsh sensibility that suggested Kirk might also be seeking comfort in a time of crisis, and confusing his obligations along the way.

Kirk noticed that Spock was looking around, as if he had some sudden, new reason to be uneasy.

"What is it?"

Now, the Vulcan knelt down on the floor and began tracing a haphazard, curving line across the widest part of the carpet, between the furniture. His faintly orange finger almost glowed against the thick blue pile and, quickly, he twisted little dots here and there into the fibers, in a pattern the captain quickly recognized as the local constellation of stars, both living and dead.

"When I was searching for computer files on the _Amphora _and the _Enterprise_, I also found some basic historical information," the science officer said, pausing to look up at the others standing in a circle around him. "But what I found was simply not logical, based on what we understand about this civilization."

"How so," Kirk asked, flatly.

"This is the path of the world we now find ourselves on," Spock said, referring to the long and winding line, which extended under a glass coffee table, and threatened to loop under a chair as well.

"Looks like your first estimated path," Kirk said, in a complimentary way.

"Indeed. However," the science officer said, with something like a disappointed sigh, at his own inaccuracy, "this is the actual state of affairs." And now he added a similar, dashed line, close to the first, in the latest few twists and turns. But then, going backwards, the two paths diverged wildly, in what must have been the preceding decades.

"You see," Spock said, beginning another lecture for the landing party, which gradually knelt all around him and the carpet-map, "if their sole ambition had been to traverse across the simplest path within convenient range of their local collapsed stars, as their primary source of energy and life, they should have followed this earlier, estimated, route."

"But they didn't," McCoy said, breaking the puzzled silence.

"No."

"Then you were wrong!" McCoy said, at once triumphant and a bit silly.

"To follow a course logically is not, in itself, a mistake, Doctor."

"But to assume," the ship's surgeon teased again, on behalf of every victim of Vulcan empiricism, both past and present, "that all species of men act as _you_ do, is 'illogical' on the face of it! Isn't that right?"

"Shall I burst into a cloud of smoke and flames, Doctor, like some short-circuited computer?"

"Sometimes, I wish you would," McCoy grumbled, seeing he'd get no traction in this argument.

"Can we get back to the map, here, please?" Kirk wondered. His own eyes had never left the inscrutable tracings in the blue carpet, between the great white couches and glass tables. Mr. Spock returned his gaze to the long, wiggling line he'd drawn, and the divergent dashed path, and the loose collection of twisted "black holes" off to his right.

"Obviously, I am not fully able to illustrate the 'Z' axis, for verticality," he resumed. "But, if you will allow me, I shall add these 'tails' at various points," he said, dragging his fingers here and there along the dotted line, as if to add legs to a striped serpent, "and you can see the additional details of srogue planet's transit, and here" he said, adding lines to his previously assumed route, "diverging from my own, incorrect assumption."

"Conclusion, Spock," Kirk said, as kindly as he could.

The science officer, and first-officer, of the _Enterprise _spread both hands out over the impromptu map as if the answer was plainly evident. "Clearly, they have been following a strategic, or possibly even _military_ plan of tracking and evasion. Rather than conducting a simple 'grand tour' of this portion of the galaxy."

"Tracking and evasion of _what_?" the doctor wondered.

"Precisely," the Vulcan agreed. Both men now looked at the captain, as if he could get their answer more quickly than either of the two lower-ranking men.

"Allena said… they left their home system, partly, because of some enemy, the Mahlons," Kirk remembered.

"Then it may be logical to assume," Spock said, "they still fear them, or some other enemy they made along the way. Just as they are making an enemy of Starfleet."

Now, filled with dismay and frustration, Kirk looked back at Spock, still kneeling deferentially on the floor. And it was Kirk's turn to admit, to himself, that he'd made his own terrible mistake as well.

Finally, he became aware that Mr. Exmoor, the faintly comical old actor, had pushed himself into the circle of crewmen surrounding the captain. All of them crowded between soft couches and glittering glass tables.

"Does any of this ring a bell with you, sir?" Kirk asked, as Exmoor was the only native in the room.

Exmoor's eyes wandered around the room for a moment before he answered.

"King Jonoff, before he was killed, faced a great battle, which sent both cultures in our home system out on separate paths," the old actor began, and you could almost hear the sound of distant _shofar_, calling legions to war. "He had found the science of the transmission beams that linked us to the plasma discs, and our enemies had likewise escaped further hostilities. It's all played out on dozens—well, literally, hundreds of epic feelies since I was a little boy."

"Go on," Kirk said, quietly.

"And in most of those stories, the Mahlon fleet was lost in the maelstrom of a black hole, and we were the great victorious heroes, of course," Exmoor added, as if such a thing were well-known and completely inevitable. But then, he seemed to be overcome by a kind of cold shame, of some distant memory. "There are other stories, as well, most of which were never made into feelies, that the enemy is still lurking out there, in some kind of extra-spatial network of… tunnels, you might say, that somehow form between the extreme conditions of our own particular network of collapsed stars."

"Wormholes," Kirk said quietly.

"An odd way of saying it, but essentially yes," Exmoor said, as apologetic and rueful as Kirk himself could be, in his own moments of dismay.

"And your own military remains on guard against the sudden reappearance of the Mahlons," Mr. Spock said, with a strange note of disbelief in his voice.

"So the rumor goes," the older man said, as though he'd spoken the words many times before. Then, he became more expansive, and almost comical again. "I, myself, starred in a huge blockbuster, where they tried to lure us into destruction like that, but at the last possible moment—"

"You reversed polarity," Kirk interrupted, ironically. But Exmoor, the former matinee idol, merely looked back with a sort of distant condescension. It was as if he had merely been cornered again, by an annoyingly persistent fan.

"Uh, no. That time, we dropped our engine core, and, uh…" Exmoor's eyes searched the ceiling for a moment.

"Escaped certain death?"

"Of course."

Both men laughed a little at that, before a strange, quiet moment of reflection swept over the room. Finally the old actor broke the silence.

"You have to free your ship. And I have a little space ship of my own," Exmoor said politely, looking around at the blank expressions of the actual galactic explorers themselves. Then, Yeoman Tamura spoke up, flanked by the two security men, who seemed a about a meter taller than she.

"Perhaps if the princess could arrest her father's advisors, she could free the _Enterprise_ on her own orders."

"Going by historical precedent, yeoman," Mr. Spock said, as he rose to stand, "her advisors would most likely arrest her first."

"Unless I could persuade her to have me arrested, herself," Kirk said, regaining his sense of confidence. "To bolster her own position as leader of an embattled planet."

"Jim I don't think she'd ever do that," McCoy said. "If she did, she'd have to put on some kind of 'show-trial.' And, judging from what we know of those men behind the throne, they'd have you standing in front of a firing squad the next morning!"

"But it would give Spock time to get away and check on the ship," Kirk said.

"I don't think the princess would let any harm come to the captain," Exmoor said, with a quiet, jilted sadness in his voice. At this, Kirk paused and nodded very slightly, gracious in a kind of romantic victory over the older man. McCoy, himself, looked irritated, or impatient.

"Well, he may not come to any harm while he's here on _your _planet," the doctor brayed. "But I'm not sure how many compromises he's willing to make before Starfleet gets wind of all this!"

"They must know," Johansen, the security man, spoke up finally, "that Starfleet will send a rescue mission."

"Perhaps they do," Spock agreed. "But we are dealing with a people who are accustomed to indulging their every whim and enjoying every possible technological convenience. And many of them have no experience with a superior military force in their own living memory. Their hijacking of the _Enterprise _may simply mean an even greater energy source than ever before, to them. And an even greater sense of arrogance, shielded, as they are, behind a natural curtain of gravity wells."

At this diatribe, all eyes turned to Exmoor for confirmation or dispute.

"Well," he began, "don't confuse the military with the political side. It's the counsel that controls the energy harvest. The space-force can't stand them. And the counsel becomes stronger every time they capture a ship like yours, through the energy ministry. If they can also prepare a defense quickly enough, who's to say the next ship that comes looking for you won't end up just the same way? Usually, our space force just looks the other way, for the sake of stability."

"Then we stop them ourselves," Kirk said, fierce in the face of the unknown.

"How the hell do we do that?" McCoy's own eyes shining with intensity. An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Like the man said," Captain James T. Kirk finally shrugged, suddenly looking relaxed: "Spock to the ship; and me… to the firing squad!"

The Vulcan nodded, though he seemed especially grave at the prospects. Then, he and the older man from the feelies walked out to the balcony, where Exmoor's personal hovercraft was tied up. They climbed in and were gone in a moment, with a great rush of fan noise and a flashing of bright wing-lights. Kirk used the distraction to quietly cross to the doorway, and sneak out into the corridor. Indeed, he had one hand on the doorknob to complete his getaway, leaving the rest of the landing party behind.

"Not so fast," McCoy said, trotting to Kirk's side and catching his arm, before the captain could leave the suite by himself. And, when the he turned, Jim Kirk saw that every remaining member of the landing party, except for Mr. Riley (who had fallen fast asleep on a couch during Spock's lecture), was close behind.

"Now," Kirk chuckled, faintly touched and amused by their _esprit de corps_, but holding out his free hand to restrain them, "this is liable to have an emotional element to it, where I'll be negotiating very closely with the princess, in a one-on-one manner, and it could have a very personal component to it, with a very sensitive little—" He was holding out his thumb and index finger to illustrate the slight but measurable potential for personal embarrassment, when McCoy brusquely interrupted.

"We've seen it!" the doctor said, brushing Kirk's measuring fingers aside and, likewise, the landing party members behind him showed no sign of retreating back into their suite.

So, at Kirk's behest, Yeoman Tamura quietly woke Riley just enough to tell him they'd be back, though the young lieutenant was already curled up in the pillows of the couch, like a puppy against his mother's belly. Tamura left him there, and quietly closed the door behind her. And, being the tiniest member of the party, she had to scramble to catch up to the others, in her tight red mini-skirt and long black boots.

The bat-like cannon ships were still clinging to the hull of the _Enterprise _as she hung in space above the plasma disc. And, from her tilted-up angle, she looked as though she might blast away at any moment, despite the brutal truth. At last, an invading crew of technicians in spacesuits boarded from the blasted-out shuttle bay doors. They saw no trace of Mr. Scott or Mr. O'Neil, who had been working to understand the alien technology when the first red alert sounded. Before the battle began and ended so quickly.

The Chilion brigade marched in thick silvery spacesuits, across the shuttle bay, with servo-motors assisting them against the punishing artificial gravity. And, once inside the pressurized areas, they popped their helmets, looking fierce but drawn, stepping over bodies, the boots of their protective gear clanging against the deck.

After a minute or so of searching up and down the first corridor, the technicians slowly made their way forward to Engineering, ignoring the men and women on their backs, powerlessly panting here and there. The invaders had little oxygen-type straws that rose up out of the round metal collars around their necks, straws that lightly hung over the corners of their mouths, to help them breathe.

Once the team had congregated in the middle of the engine room, alien clamps and cables and blinking processors were quickly and efficiently thrown from a gurney, across the great accelerator tanks, and strapped down over the heart of the matter/anti-matter drive. The familiar weighty cylinders soon looked like great lumbering lichens, caught in a heavy net. And on the other side of the echoing room, a magnetic round panel was slammed against the main controls. From inside that large round disc, a series of metallic probes drilled their way into the engine relays. And, one by one, mysterious lights began flickering to life on the face of the new controls. The warp drive thrummed to life, and the ship was theirs.

"Look, we're going up again," Allena said, without enthusiasm. She was far across the room, silhouetted and facing the windows when Jim Kirk walked in. The other _Enterprise _crewmen waited just out in the corridor and Hulda could be seen dusting and straightening all around them, worrying each crystal knick-knack as she worked her way toward the next palatial room. Inside her private suite, wearing a sort of white Athenian gown, Allena didn't turn; but stood quietly watching the other buildings rise from the green carpet of the billowing forests, her arms folded hopelessly across her chest.

As he approached, and castle tower rose, the distant, hexagonal oceans became more visible on the horizon. It almost appeared the planet itself was falling downward to some horrible fate, as the city rose toward the flawed moon above. Allena seemed small and helpless in the midst of it all, an idea that was reinforced by her flimsy dress. It exposed so much naked back and quite a bit down in front, that she backed up against him for warmth when he finally stood behind her.

"You know why things are returning to normal here, don't you?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yes, I'm afraid I do," she replied quietly.

"Allena, I need a weapon of some kind."

At this, she spun furiously around, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't just kill them all, they're the only family I have left!"

"When Starfleet comes looking for the _Enterprise_, they aren't going to ask a lot of questions. They'll know, soon enough, what happened."

"What am I supposed to do," she said through gritted teeth, like a desperate animal, "tell my people to live in tents among the ruins, or burrow underground for warmth, till—"

"Tell them you care, and that's why you had to remove those old men from power. Because they _don't _care; and they haven't cared. Not for a long time, except for themselves."

"And tell them that the rest of the galaxy regards us as a band of power-mad egomaniacs, who'd kill innocent thousands to support a life-style we don't deserve?"

"Believe me, there are a trillion people in the Federation who manage to get by, very happily, with a lot less."

"But you can't just unplug paradise and not call it a prison," she said, sounding exhausted and turning back to the endless sky, as stars began twinkling all around, and even below the skyscrapers.

"People have good will. They want to think of themselves as good and decent," he insisted, taking her cool hand for commonality.

"Once you've spent a lifetime being told that you're the best, it's pretty hard to accept the notion you're even capable of… the slightest evil," she said. Then she furrowed her brow and looked even more wretched, in her timeless beauty. Cold diamonds glittered around her neck and wrists, making everything else look humble.

"Allena, let me ask you something," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist, and managing a little smile in spite of everything. "Did you ever know anybody who really was 'the best'?"

"No, of course not," she said, though she sounded like a terrible sob was still choking her long, graceful neck.

"Neither did I. Everybody with a lick of sense knows they're deeply flawed, one way or another."

"Like the moon," she muttered, nestling closer, in the evening breeze.

"What's that?"

"Hadn't you heard? It's all worn out. After decades of being heated this way and that by great plasma beams, the center's been fractured. And now I suppose we'll probably have to find a new one."

"Ah," he said, as if it were a very minor concern.

"Besides," she said, returning to the topic at hand, "they've got it all figured out—just the same way they keep trapping your ships to harvest our plasma coils. They've got it all figured out! They tell us we're just that close to some terrible disaster, and then they tell us that because we're so great, that we'll find a way out. But of course they mean that _they'll _find a way out, and I suppose they mean _they're _the ones who are really so great. And so we daren't do without them. No matter what the cost. Because without them, of course, we'd be lost!"

"Maybe so," Kirk said, smiling again at her wit, in spite of all the underlying sadness. She became tense in his arms, like a fighter going into the ring.

"My goodness, you'll need a weapon!" she said, turning to him with a sudden realization, and an almost comical intensity.

But Jim Kirk's smile faded as he glanced up at the evening sky, and saw the artificial star the _Enterprise _had dropped, orbiting far above the city. It had turned from gold to red: blinking a simple, new signal, over and over. He could almost hear the _whoop _of the red alert klaxon.


	8. Chapter 8

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Eight**

"Aye, there they go," Mr. Scott muttered, as he and O'Neil watched the technicians' vessel drift away from the torn doors of the shuttle bay. In another moment, the alien ship fired its engines and sped off to the flotilla of enemy craft, on the other side of the blinding whirlwind. In their own shuttlecraft, blasted away with the debris, the two Earthmen plotted quietly, from their hiding place behind one of the drifting, loose hanger doors, a few hundred miles from the ship, across the blinding disc.

Their options were fairly limited, and quite possibly non-existent. Reasoning the _Enterprise _had no defense against the alien weaponry, the two men slipped into a shuttle at the first sign of attack. And now all the cannon ships were locked on the underside of the starship, where they projected their crippling beams into the decks above. So, Scotty supposed, the first order of business would be to try to maneuver the shuttlecraft onto the "top" of the engineering decks, below the roaring engines, and hope the gravity beams wouldn't stop them entirely, through the mass of the vessel. There were two black ships clinging to the lowest deck, just aft of the giant sensor dish, and forward from the shuttle bay launch-deck.

"When's the best time?" O'Neil wondered, looking as surprised as ever, as Mr. Scott began tweaking the controls inside the shuttlecraft.

"No time like the present, laddy. Now that they've got everything they want, maybe they'll let their guard down a bit."

They both knew there were four access points across the top of the lower hull, but the closest two were just small monitoring stations, for engine diagnostics. And they couldn't take the engines off-line, without all of them tumbling into the maelstrom, chewed up like the _Amphora_.

The tiny shuttle arced high above and then down toward the _Enterprise, _whose engines were spinning like mad. A minute later they made their touchdown between the twin necks that joined the lower hull to the nacelles overhead. They could just begin to glimpse the other cannon ships clinging to the upper saucer deck, all with their tail-like gravity guns pointed the other way: which further gave the alien craft the appearance of bat's heads, all pointed directly at the shuttlecraft; any of which might wake suddenly, at the slightest disturbance.

"We should have gone out in _two _shuttles, sir," O'Neil said, leaning forward with worried eyes, watching each enemy ship casting a long, narrow shadow away from the accretion disc, against the hull.

Suddenly, a great _bang!_ passed through the shuttle, and they broke free of the _Enterprise _for a moment.

"Look, sir!" O'Neil said, still trying to whisper, but his whole body rose out of the padded chair at the co-pilot's console.

Up above, on the under-side of the great saucer section of the ship, the cannon ships had been knocked free, as well.

"Aye, they've put a charge into her hull, good lads," Scotty nodded, with much more caution and restraint.

Everything after that happened in a single breath-taking moment: the engines overhead were still blasting away at warp factor three; but the ship was no longer locked in place. She was spinning to a new heading; and the sudden maneuver further scattered the jolted cannon ships. As quickly as all of that, the _Enterprise _vanished in a blur, away and into free space.

"Well, good for them," Scotty said, throwing the toggles of the shuttle's engine controls so they, too, could get some distance from the cannon ships, which were spinning in all directions for the moment. And, with an almost playful sense of wickedness, the chief engineer said, "Let's go have a look at where they all come from."

At that, O'Neil looked _very _surprised.

The _Enterprise _crewmen met Princess Allena on the front landing of the palace tower, on the way to the advisors' temporary meeting hall. A cortege of four impossibly long limousines hovered patiently, blacker than even the black boots of the livery men standing in smart pairs at regular intervals, across the front of the building's entrance. But the cars caught a million reflected lights, from little glowing spirals that decorated the space overhead, under a swooping, sheltering arc of marble.

She was wearing a strangely huge fur coat, with tremendously wide half-sleeves, which had the effect of making her exposed face and gloved hands seem even smaller and more helpless by comparison. And her great glittering earrings and elaborate beehive seemed far too grand as she stood waiting alone, looking rather sad and uneasy. She seemed too new at being a 'head of state,' to have assembled any courtiers, to serve as her own sort of travelling cocktail party. So, for the moment, she merely looked like the most unlikely victim of being stood-up. Then suddenly, as if by accident, Jim Kirk appeared.

"Is that you, hiding in a stack of teddy bears and Christmas ornaments?" he said, even as his eyes swept along the line of hovercrafts before them, the chauffeurs standing politely on the other sides, seemingly to float out in space, themselves, a mile up in the pink sky. The great troubled moon was behind them.

"I don't know what that means," she said, looking off toward the horizon with a great show of innocence. "But I'm willing to bet it's something quite awful."

"Not at all," Jim Kirk smiled, the whole conversation too quiet to be heard by the others behind them. "Where I come from, the children are never bad till _after _Christmas morning."

"I have so much to learn about your people," she sighed, sounding diffident and vaguely diplomatic all at once, as she stepped forward. And with her sudden decision to move, the footmen all reached out in unison to open up the wide doors of the waiting vehicles. The other crewmen, including Dr. McCoy, poured into the second car, and then the drivers stepped in on the other side. And the entire entourage sped away, like a formation of strange black fish.

Night seemed to be upon them, once they were enclosed in the hovercraft, with the darkened windows all around. And the captain could tell the beautiful space princess was not about to pounce on him this time, as extravagantly decked-out as she was, and as dismayed by the growing conflict with her advisors, and by the terrible connection she imagined between the restoration of power to the floating city, and Captain Kirk's separation from his own great ship.

"You don't look like a man who's about to go pounding on tables and throwing chairs around," she said, after appraising him as well, with her own tentative, side-long glance.

"Not enough furniture in here," he shrugged.

"Well, you haven't seen the lobby of the old Armory building," she said, with a funny little dry harrumph. "It's absolutely loaded with both—chairs _and _tables!"

"Did it really used to be an armory?" he asked, ducking his head a bit to see frighteningly ornate building as they approached.

"Well, not any more than I'm the great King Jonoff," Allena said, clasping her gloved hands together in the folds of her fur coat. "Apparently it's got a lot of old bits and pieces from the one my father lived in, in the final days 'round our old sun."

"When you were at war?"

"Oh, everyone's always at war," she whispered impatiently, still looking out ahead, over the chauffeur's shoulder, a good three meters away. Somehow, though, her words sounded more sarcastic and annoyed than her own sad expression should have allowed.

"And your old enemy disappeared into a black hole?"

"Now, you know how I feel about all that advanced physics talk," she complained, rolling her dark eyes comically. "It's really no use trying to convince me of that nonsense!"

"My first officer thinks you're still on the run from them."

"First, teddy bears and Crispness. And now, running from ghosts in black holes. Where _do_ people come up with these things?"

"That's how you fuel your whole planet," Kirk said, pretending mild dismay at her contradictions.

"I prefer to believe it's all rainbows and good wishes," she said, lifting her fingers languidly in the air, as if strumming a lute, and watching the great buildings drift by in silence.

"Yes, well," Kirk said, unwilling to bang her over the head with the awful truth. "That's what they want you to believe." The next silence was especially terrible, and her eyes seemed to have misted over.

"Until the next poor cruise ship wanders into our coils, I suppose," she said, quietly. And now she dipped her little chin down into the rich fur of her coat, till her whole face disappeared nearly, and he could barely see her elegant eyebrows over her collar.

"You know," he said, after a moment had passed, "it's hard to believe you don't have something like warp drive. You've got so many other great advances."

"I suppose that once you get everything you could possibly want, and accomplish some amazing feat or other, something that makes you totally different from any other world, well then your priorities shift," she said, coming out of her luxurious shell again, but looking pale.

Jim Kirk thought about that for a moment before replying. "Isn't it also possible that every new technological advance just brings with it some sort of threat to the old order?" He was already imagining his next run-in with the royal advisors, and how the last two had ended in absolute chaos.

"Here we are," Allena said quietly, pretending to have completely forgotten the line of questioning, as their hovercraft sidled up like a gondola against the Armory entrance. Mr. Babbington was waiting under the awning, all smiles and welcoming, though the chief advisor's smile hardened a little when he saw James T. Kirk.

The princess emerged from the hovercraft like a practiced ballerina, her fur coat parting a bit as her long legs bridged the gap and Mr. Babbington took her gloved hand. The captain followed, more in the fashion of a paratrooper dropping out of an old-fashioned helicopter: with bent knees and one hand holding on to the frame of the hovercraft door. The other landing party members were likewise scrambling out of the limousine behind.

But, in spite of her grace, Allena looked as though she were the one being led to the firing squad. She followed the smiling Mr. Babbington into the golden glow of the armory building, but the concentration of the princess seemed to be fixed only a few feet ahead of her, or perhaps as if she were peering down a dark tunnel that no one else could see. Watching her, out of the corner of his eye, Captain Kirk had a sudden sense of understanding: that the whole planet was peering down a wormhole, in dread, looking for a vengeful enemy, whether it was the Mahlons, the Federation, or their own ambition. With a nervous air, she shrugged her way out of the huge coat, and a uniformed servant held it, stepping smartly backward to the leather-trimmed wall.

"Please don't get up," Allena said, her sweet voice calling out, and one gloved hand extending along with it, toward the crowded lobby, where all the old men were suddenly grabbing for canes and pushing themselves up out of deep-cushioned armchairs and sofas, when they realized she'd walked in. A few of the old men who couldn't hear her gentle admonition went tumbling down again, on to their chairs, or onto their fellow advisors, creating another long, slow, rolling, cantankerous avalanche.

She surveyed the scene with a trace of bemused embarrassment, or so Jim Kirk thought, as the old men were sorted out, and set into their own deep cushions once more.

"I wanted to thank you… for your many years of loyal service," she began, a warmth and kindness in her eyes shining across the lobby, from where she stood in a tailored red dress. "And to express my sincere gratitude for having kept the memory of my father, and his great victories, alive during our bold and independent journey."

"But after much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that we can no longer support ourselves in the manner of decades past." She paused to look down, as if reviewing the text of an important speech, though of course there was no such document before her.

And in that moment of silence, both she and Jim Kirk could hear a weird, distant thunder, as well as the metallic call of an echoing siren, which quickly spread from building to building, across the floating metropolis.

"And it is with a very deep sense of gratitude…" But she had to pause, first with an awkward grimace, and then with a quizzical alertness that made some of the advisors stir and sit up and look over their shoulders, to see what she was gaping at so suddenly. She had quietly realized that the distant thunder and insistent sirens were not going away. If anything, the thunder seemed to grow louder, and deeper, and a rustling wind seemed to stir up from far below the armory like a consuming, invisible fire rising from the surface of the planet.

"Captain!" It was Johansen, the tall blond security guard, rushing in from the entryway, into the main lobby. He looked as though he'd just run a thousand meter race, and might be ready to collapse right there in the wide doorway. Kirk turned to exchange a wide-eyed stare with Allena, and then hurried out after the red-shirted crewman. The princess was left to try to regain her train of thought, as a little grumbling conversation stirred up among the old men. It seemed they could barely hear the very high, screeching siren, or perhaps they just felt the very low thunder that roiled the air.

"_Enterprise_, come in. Commander Scott to _Enterprise,_" the Scotsman said, his fingers poised on the controls before him, in the shuttlecraft.

"Mr. Scott, look at that!" O'Neill had his own hands on the co-pilots' station, and had one screen showing a long-range scan of Chilion behind them. "It looks like the moon has hit the planet!"

"Aye," Scotty said, after a surprised double-take, and a sudden, surly look he couldn't quite suppress. "And it's no more than they deserve, if you ask me."

There, on the little screen, it looked like the planet was being side-swiped by its smaller companion, in a very slow, glancing collision. Soil and debris was plowed up from the crust of both bodies, like a dark froth, lit red by the glow of the artificially-heated satellite. It all seemed like a dream-like _pas des deux_, from this great distance. Gradually, the moon's energy turned the cloud of newly thrown dust into a sort of jagged nest, nearly black in the lower reaches, turning to dark red at the top, along the horizon of the planet.

"This is _Enterprise_, come in, Mr. Scott." It was a familiar voice emanating from the shuttle console.

"How're ye doing up there, Uhura?"

"We have eight dead, sir, but we're re-routing engines through auxiliary command."

"Good girl," Scotty nodded gravely, glancing up through the three windows above the control panel.

"We thought you were dead, sir, too!" came Mr. Sulu's grateful voice, from the captain's chair.

"Ach, don't worry about me. Ye ought to get back to the captain, though, and see about rescue and relief for those bastards."

"Aye, sir. Course plotted and laid in. Shall we come and collect you, first?"

"No, no, no! Take as wide a course around us as you can. Mr. O'Neil and I are going on a little side-trip."

"Understood, sir. We'll have repairs to the shuttle bay in about… forty-eight hours."

"Scott out," he replied, snapping a little control switch. A brief moment of silence fell upon the shuttlecraft, except for the odd instrument noise. "Now what have I taught them about those over-eager repair estimates, all along?" Scotty sighed with exasperation. "Forty-eight hours. Can ye beat that?"

O'Neil just shrugged and watched as the stars streaked by. They had left the cannon ships far behind, once the shuttle entered warp drive. But on the little scanner screen below the windows, the moon still seemed to be stuck tight to the planet, though the splash pattern of its impact was rising slowly, in the shape of water after a belly-flop. Ice crystals from the some of the hexagonal oceans reached out into space, lending glitter to the dust, and long sections of white ocean walls could be seen in the distance, tumbling like shards of glass.

"May I enquire," Mr. Spock said, as he and Mr. Exmoor flew through space in the actor's small runabout, "as to how your society developed its gravity beam technology?" He could have said, "gravity weapon," but he knew enough about non-Vulcan psychology to avoid the more dramatic term.

"Well," Exmoor said, with what sounded like an embarrassed laugh, "we stole it. From our enemies."

"Indeed?"

"I'm afraid so. But it made for a first-rate feelie, where I had to grab the weapon off of a Mahlon ship, under dire circumstances." Exmoor looked whimsically proud at the memory, of a fictional re-telling of an historic crime, and Mr. Spock merely nodded in understanding.

"Approximately how many of these 'feelies' were made, devoted to the subject of your interplanetary wars?" Exmoor paused, at Spock's question: dumbfounded at the request, and then let out a little exhalation of breath through tightened lips.

"I honestly can't say. Hundreds, I suppose."

"But, invariably, your age-old enemy was sent into apparent destruction…"

"In a black hole, yes," they both repeated, at the same time, Mr. Exmoor, and Mr. Spock, gliding across the starry deep.

"But then, there were any number of what we like to call 'alternate histories' written, and even put on the strand, calculated to inspire 'spine-tingling suspense.'"

"Of course," Mr. Spock said, trying not to roll his eyes.

"I didn't do any of those, by then I was in my regular serial of inter-galactic adventures—all made up, of course, all fictional," the actor was quick to point out, to the seemingly literal-minded Vulcan.

"Yes," the science officer drawled. "But," he tried again, "there was no clear, scientific evidence that the Mahlons may have survived, somehow, in the interstices between collapsed stars."

"Lots of things… survive between collapsed stars. I can tell you that, personally," Exmoor said drily, with a side-long look out a narrow view-pane, and a wryness of tone that even Spock could recognize as some sort of attempt at humor: possibly involving the loves or hatreds of old celebrities.

As this was becoming more and more difficult for Mr. Spock he, too, began staring out ahead at the stars, and counted the days till they would reach what he believed was the remote signaling station that should exist between the last known whereabouts of the _Amphora, _and the string of black holes. In his mind, he was simultaneously reviewing the equations for wormhole formation and estimating the gravitational distortions between the loose barricade of black holes, between Chilion and the Federation.

"I am particularly interested in the pattern of your planet's transit since the disappearance of your enemy," Spock said, trying not to sound curt or fatalistic, about the actor's ability to relate simple scientific information.

"How do you mean?"

"Most of your life," the Vulcan began patiently, as both men faced forward in the cockpit, "you have lived on a world that has re-told certain legends, and produced many stories, about the sudden disappearance of another planet—or rather, the disappearance of their space-militia, following their apparent evacuation of their own home world, after a major loss in battle. Since then, it would appear to me that your own planet has been engaged in a continuous monitoring of the seven largest dormant gravity wells in the region. In the process, Chilion has made a series of occasionally quite challenging maneuvers, ostensibly to stay within certain mathematical arrangements, or loci, within the dark constellation—in spite of the often great distances separating you from the active, energy-consuming black holes that are so vitally important to your sunless world."

Exmoor blinked several times, as he attempted to digest this line of thought.

"What you're saying is so… _alien_ to me," Exmoor continued, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. "We chart our own course, through the galaxy. We blaze a trail… no slave to any jealous sun." The way he recited these last words made the Vulcan think they must have been from some sort of national anthem, to be mindlessly recited in the face of any danger.

"And yet," Spock observed, without condemnation, "the indications, from the gravitational disturbances throughout this region of the galaxy, suggest," he drew a polite breath, "that you could have proceeded much farther in the time you've had, since your plasma/gravity economy was first realized, than you actually have."

"You're saying," Exmoor responded, in quiet disbelief, not unlike Captain Kirk himself, "we've just been going… 'round and 'round in circles?"

"The illusion of freedom can be far less costly than actual freedom itself."

Exmoor fell utterly silent at this, for a long minute. "I've spent the greater part of my life making people believe they were bold and brave and full of daring. And now you're telling me, out of guilt, or fear…"

"Sometimes," Spock filled in the strange, heartbreaking silence, "the act of simply surviving, and going on with life, requires all one's daring."

Finally, after feeling ridiculous for the last five minutes, Exmoor seemed to come to peace with all his fictional accomplishments. "I'll bet you're a damned good first officer, Mr. Spock."

"I'm sure you played a very noble captain, sir."

"I have some old feelies, on the computer here, if you'd like—"

"Visual detection," Spock said suddenly, "of a large metallic structure, bearing 005 mark 327."

"Where's that?" the actor asked, blankly.

"Ahead, slightly to the left; and then up," the Vulcan said. Realizing, perhaps, that he should have known this all along, but that he'd pay no penalty for his ignorance, Exmoor relaxed visibly, as if he would heave a sigh of relief. Then he leaned forward, squinting, till he saw a very distant object, with the stars glinting behind: at an image suggested a faraway, cage-like space-station.

"How perfectly awful," Allena said quietly to herself, though the words sounded husky and hollow in her own ears. Beginning to fear that some sort of curse long-held in abeyance had finally befallen her people, she stood with Jim Kirk on a balcony outside the Armory lobby, surveying the damage that would soon stem from one horizon to the next. It would surely be visible across half the planet by now, as the stars disappeared in the murk, one by one. The captain stood silently, holding her fur coat over his shoulder, which gave him the look of a barbaric warrior, with a faint golden light glowing behind him from inside. And of course he wouldn't mention it under the circumstances, but he was quietly pleased to see that the _Enterprise_' communications satellite was blinking gold again, overhead.

The wind had become steady, whipping at her red dress and tousling up his hair, as the thunderous roar continued in the distance. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she folded her slender arms, even as she refused the furs once more when he offered. Braving the elements might strengthen her but, as Jim Kirk watched, he guessed it could just as easily provoke a bout of nervous hysterics at any moment.

The upper atmosphere was gradually turning to red with moon dust, and the great plume thrown up from the planet's surface stood like a tombstone tilting across the sky. Making matters worse, long white sections of artificial ocean frames had formed a tiny, indecipherable epitaph out of the abstract white ruins, rendering their fate even more uncertain.

"You can always get another one," Kirk mused again, regarding the dangerous moon, which seemed to have taken up permanent residence along the edge of the sky. He tried once again to put the coat over her shoulders, but she just shrugged it away, with a little step to one side. And yet, she knew that she was running out of room on the balcony, as each refusal took her another awkward step back toward the lobby doors, where she might be seen by her father's old advisors.

"I wish you'd take me away from this," she said, leaning back against him for warmth.

"I wish I could," he said quietly, in her ear. All she could do then was sigh and square her shoulders, and walk back inside, where the old men were waiting. He turned to watch the unfolding disaster in the sky.

"Well," Dr. McCoy said, coming out to stand by the solitary captain, "it looks like you two are getting along nicely."

"I thought that was supposed to be a bad thing," Jim Kirk said, unable to keep a tone of bitterness from his voice as he looked down, now, into the dark forest below.

"Her own people have used her a lot more badly than you ever could, Jim."

"No one at the Federation high council is going to lose any sleep over her feelings, or mine, Bones."

"No, but even the high council would have to agree that half of all diplomacy would just cease to exist," the doctor said, with a sweep of one hand, "without the personal feelings of the people who make things happen."

"The day it gets that calculated," Kirk said quietly, but severely, "is the day it stops working."

"Jim, a week ago, that girl would never have even thought about standing up to her own advisors, the way she's been doing. She was just a nice girl whose brother died unexpectedly, thanks to us, by the way," McCoy shrugged. "They attacked the _Enterprise_, and that led to the power crisis, and now, surprise: you have to make it all work again, with or without that royal mafia, in there."

"You make it all sound so easy." Now both men turned to look through the plate glass windows, as Allena spoke quietly, and pleasantly, with some of the older men inside, under the glow of antique lamps.

"From the looks of it, I'd say she's fully graduated from the Jim Kirk 'school of charm,'" McCoy said admiringly, folding his arms as they watched the royal advisors going all dewy-eyed over the lovely young woman.

"She was just a little girl, a week ago, to them," the captain nodded. And then, as if one of the old men had said something terribly witty, Allena burst into smiles and gentle laughter, remembering to put a gloved hand to her lips, as if she feared a breach of decorum. And though neither Kirk nor McCoy could hear a word of what was being said, the pantomime, followed by a sudden, laughing competition among the advisors, gently pushing and shoving one another for dominance before the princess, was loud and clear in its meaning. Canes and walkers clattered together, as the elder statesmen stood on one leg, or jockeyed for attention from their wheelchairs.

"Of course," McCoy pondered, "they could just be trying to out-charm Allena, for their own good."

"Bones, you think too much," Kirk said, watching as Allena primly declined a little crystal cup of some glittering drink. Then, as far as the two Earthmen could tell, the old advisors made some sort of a toast in her honor, raising their cups and then drinking from stooped shoulders.

"She never got to make her little speech," the doctor warned mildly, as he strolled back into the lobby, jingling an empty crystal cup in one hand. Inside, the game of cat and mouse continued, though several of the ancients had fallen asleep in club chairs, and others had wandered off entirely. Even the nightmarish public warning sirens had finally been cut off.

Captain Kirk considered what his friend was saying but, all in all, he truly, deeply believed in the power that exists between men and women: beyond all mundane ambition; beyond all tiresome calculation.

He just could not wrap his mind around the idea that he'd ever have to give up that one true thing in his life. And if the Federation was worried that, twenty years from now, he might weave together his own empire of a hundred long-lost sons and daughters on a swath of frontier worlds, was it really the worst possible problem? A momentary shudder passed through him as he wondered if "a hundred" was too high, or too low, an estimate.

But there she was, that marginalized little girl from last week, with glittering diamonds and that beehive hairdo, laughing and lavishing her attention on the men she seemed about to throw under a bus, half an hour ago. Gone, too, was the pensive new ruler of this ravenous, rapacious world, who wished for an escape for herself, and no questions asked.

Kirk reluctantly turned away again to regard the moon, with its own broken heart deep inside. He immediately imagined Mr. Spock, his friend and science officer, straightening uncomfortably at the description, when it was really just a terrible fracture of the moon's core.

And he remembered his own recent, blithe words, too: "you can always get another one," he'd said, not realizing they could well need an entirely new planet after this was over. And entirely new rulers (unless Allena really was the romantic magician she suddenly appeared to be), and new residents… Hell, Kirk thought, why not just let the whole planet spin off in darkness, till it finally wobbled into a white-hot accretion disc itself?

The party went on, inside, as though the devastation was happening on some entirely different globe. And he remembered Nero, who went down in history as "the ruler who fiddled, while Rome burned." And another three or four such cases though, of course, it was never as simple as that.

He wanted to commandeer a limousine to go and survey the damage, but the risk was too high, till the moon had completed its sideswipe of the planet's crust. The thing could still crack apart, before exiting the atmosphere. So, for the moment, he felt the wind and heard the endless rumbling, far in the distance, and the two seemed to merge into one thing, like the madness of mortal glory.

So it was no longer a question of whether or not he could stand to leave this girl who seemed to be blossoming into perfection; or whether she could stand to be left alone by him; or whether he could trust the ruling class to act wisely on behalf of their people, and not to fuel their world with depraved indifference to any warp-drive vessel that passed by, unawares. Now it was becoming a question of how to stop them from having some great romantic notion about themselves, which destroyed the people who got in their way and, ultimately, seemed destined to destroy them, as well.

He thought that he loved her, and that she loved him too. And yet she seemed utterly oblivious as Jim Kirk stared quietly through the plate glass doors, from out in the strange new darkness. The plasma energy beams shown bright and clear now, rising up in all directions, from the base of every tower in the sky: like pins of light, thrusting down into a cork-board, from some exotic collection of insects.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Nine**

"I'm terribly sorry, I should have got these back to you days ago," Allena said, as a guard in a black tunic stepped forward with a tray that held the landing party's communicators. Not surprisingly, their phasers were missing from the collection. It was just minutes ago that Jim Kirk had been standing out on the balcony, alone with his thoughts.

He gave her a little nod, picked one up, and flipped open the protective grid, as the last of the old men were led away to their own apartments. So, they got to keep their status as advisors to the princess, and he got his communicators back. Done and done.

But when he half-turned away to hail the ship, he got no reply through the hand-held device. "Still out of range," he said, almost quizzically, as he closed the lid again and attached it to his belt. He also very quickly put away a little rush of sentimentality he felt, with the gadget against his waist once more.

"Could you take these out to the captain's people, please?" And the guard bowed his head and quietly marched out into the corridor, the perfectly level tray held out before him, over his white glove.

"Thank you," Kirk said, remembering his manners, but still searching in her eyes for some trace of the girl he'd met, when first he'd lost his equipment.

"Captain," came the booming, nearly friendly voice of Mr. Babbington, "I believe we owe you an apology. I think we got off on the wrong foot, so to speak," he said, with a sudden guilty air, for there were still a few of old King Jonoff's advisors staggering around on crutches or in wheelchairs, here and there.

"Of course, I understand," Kirk said, with practiced graciousness.

"You know," Babbington said, draping an arm around Kirk's shoulders and turning him away from Allena for a private chat, "I never thought I'd say this, but we may be in desperate need of your help, what with this moon business, and all."

"I understand," Jim Kirk said again, as a passing waiter put a crystal cup in his hand.

"Not just for that, though."

"Really?"

"Well, it seems our old wartime foe may be getting ready to emerge from hiding any time now."

"We don't take sides," Kirk said, automatically.

"I'm not asking about that, Captain," Babbington chuckled disarmingly. "We just want to make sure the status quo is preserved. Now that our own energy harvest has been disrupted, we're especially vulnerable. And some of us, on the royal advisory board, feel…"

"Vulnerable?"

"Exactly," Babbington nodded, and signaled another waiter. Almost immediately, Jim Kirk had a crystal cup in each hand. "Now, I hope you won't be offended, Captain, but we've been keeping pretty close tabs on things 'planet-side,' if you get my drift. And we know that silly old fool Exmoor—oh, I know, he's quite charming, and I apologize—but that he's been telling your people a sort of 'entertainment' version of history, not the real history of our people."

Kirk shrugged, partly to free himself from the long arm of the chief advisor.

"Now, apparently, he's been telling your people about the last great war we fought, before we struck out on our own, from our sun, weaving our way across this little part of the galaxy."

"Go on."

"Well, the war ended with our enemies being forced into a full retreat," Babbington smiled, "into one of the collapsed stars. But, well, _legend _has it that they are just biding their time in a sort of network of passages between those super-dense points in space."

"In wormholes."

"As you say. In any case, our scientists believe they could possibly emerge at any time, possibly triggering a major regional war that could even impact the Orions, and points within your Federation."

"I see." Now Kirk drank down the contents of the first cup, to stave off an irritated headache.

"Because, well, you know how the Orions are about energy resources," Babbington confided, apparently well-informed on his closest Federation neighbors, even without the benefit of warp technology. And yet (of course) he made no apology for his own policy of commandeering cruise ships.

"And you really believe these adversaries could survive in such extreme circumstances, for a life-time, or more, just planning their next attack on you?"

"Oh, Captain, I assure you, there was no shortage of hard feelings. And with their technology, which was quite advanced in some respects, they could easily navigate the extreme conditions of these inter-dimensional spaces, almost indefinitely."

"I see." Kirk stared into the brown liquid in his second cup, becoming impatient.

"You see," Babbington said, now seeming almost embarrassed, "we are actually able to use our gravitational technology to 'strum the chords,' you might say, of the connections between collapsed stars, and more or less gauge the apparent presence of their old warships, which disappeared some sixty years ago, in your scale of reckoning."

"And you really think," Kirk said, hiding any trace of disdain behind a façade of scientific discussion, "they're just waiting for the right moment… to pounce."

"Oh, you don't know them the way we do," Babbington assured the starship captain, with a cold, dry chuckle. "The war did not end well for them, they faced utter defeat. And you know how people are, when they've been utterly crushed."

"Yes," Kirk said, though he thought perhaps a civilization as advanced as Chilion should have known it, too.

"But this is hardly the time or place, Captain, I apologize—I shouldn't have taken you away from Princess Allena—well, Queen Allena, one of these days, when we finally get around to the official coronation!" He sounded as though he were appraising fine woven damask and brocade before a reluctant client, and Kirk suddenly had the impression that he was being offered a bribe, in the form of a certain young woman.

"Your royal highness," Babbington said, having wheeled Kirk around like some clumsy dance partner, back to where she stood, looking at Babbington like an embarrassing father figure, who had obviously said too much to a man she had already been intimate with.

"Thank you," Allena said, as Kirk stepped out of the chief advisor's overly warm embrace. And, soon, the room emptied out, and the two were left alone. "What is it," she asked politely, though she seemed to feel strangely exposed.

"I don't know," he answered, remembering to smile. "You just look… different."

"I'm not very tall tonight, I suppose," she said, suddenly radiating confidence, as if it were only some matter of physical appearance, as she revealed some very modest slippers under the hem of her long gown. "I suppose I didn't want to tower over my father's old compatriots. They get shorter and shorter as it is, every year," she insisted, drawing in closer to speak more quietly, though the room was almost empty. A few stevedores gently banged big covered trays on to pushcarts to be taken away, leaving a long bright white tablecloth at one end of the vast collection of dark chairs and sofas and tables. And outside, the distant thunderous noise continued.

"I wonder what the chances are that your moon could just split in half, under the strain. The damage might be far worse, then." His mind was now racing, even as she seemed to be blissfully ready for bed.

"I couldn't possibly tell," Allena said, stifling a little yawn.

"Is there anyone who can find out for us?"

"They've all gone to bed—it's very late for them," she said, with a little smile that would have been naughty, if she were more awake.

"Allena," Kirk said, looking her straight in the eyes, calmly but very seriously, "it's getting very late for _all_ of you."

She looked down, and her beehive of hair came towering up, to the space between his eyebrows. "I know it," she whispered. "But what can I do?"

"It's not your fault," he sighed, daring to take her in his arms now, even though it seemed to miss the point of everything he'd been trying to tell her.

"What if it does break apart," she asked quietly, her face buried in his chest.

"I'm not sure," he said, at last. But he was damned sure he wasn't going to let his ship be slave to the whim of fools. And as he held her, he had to remember the future she faced was likely to be very different from everything she'd ever been taught to expect.

After a long, strangely hopeless moment, they sat down, side by side on one of the couches. Their hands were laced together but, on the walls around them, the hanging mirrors, and the glass on the doors to the darkness beyond, only seemed to multiply the emptiness, and the endless expanse of mossy outdated luxury, and they were adrift in the bygone dreams of others.

"You've changed so much in the last week," he said consolingly, putting an arm around her. "With the old men, too. Suddenly, you were irresistible to them. And you got us our communicators back," he smiled, not mentioning how long it had taken, or that Mr. Babbington may have arranged that, as a sort of bribe to enter into a decades-old blood feud.

"Now you can leave any time you want," she said, trying to smile, though tears of exhaustion filled her eyes till they glittered up at him, like the diamonds from her earlobes and around her neck.

"Law of the Sea," he whispered, kissing the side of her head.

"What does that mean?" She smoothed out the gathers in her red gown, with her matching gloves.

"When you come upon a castaway, floating in the middle of the ocean, you can't just look the other way and pass them by."

"Oh dear," she sighed, not having seen herself in quite such desperate straits till now.

"Well," he said, and rubbing her cool arm gently, drawing her closer, "let's just say you're 'moral castaways.'"

"Oh, thanks, that's much better," she laughed, in spite of herself, sniffling back her childish tears. "I suppose we are, adrift in pride." Then, she straightened a bit, next to him, to show her resolve. "And now we'll have to bring the towers down low again. For safety."

"It's so ridiculous," he said, suddenly remembering his first vision of the city, when he looked up at the great buildings, like the old Saturn V and Tupolev rockets, at the dawn of Earth's space age. But these great structures were thrusting forever into the air, glorying in a perpetual moment of launch, on a mission to nowhere.

"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," she recalled, wistfully: "The seismic instability of the planet, and all, with all the gravitational rigmarole. And it looks rather fabulous, don't you think?"

He nodded patiently, recalling the pyramids of the pharaohs. And with a strange flash of memory, a thousand other monuments, on Earth and through the galaxy. And it seemed that there was no point in mentioning that the seismic instability was a direct outgrowth of this world's own vaunted ambition.

"Every man a king," he whispered enigmatically, from a very different corner of his mind.

"Is that like 'the law of the sea,'" she said wearily, sniffling again.

"It may be just the opposite," Jim Kirk considered, raising his eyebrows over his gentle, hazel eyes. And then he settled back in the couch, as if he were about to confess a terrible truth, in as kindly a way as he could manage. "It usually comes along well before the shipwreck. Clever men will promise you the moon, to get your taxes. And then, the moon ends up with the cleverest man's name on it, and he just walks away with all the peoples' money. Somehow. Magically."

"Mmm, that does sound magical," she whispered sleepily, burying the side of her face against his well-muscled shoulder.

He chuckled, but couldn't help peering through the glass doors to look for Chilion's moon, raking up the angry red cloud across the sky. From where he was sitting, it seemed to have gone down below the horizon at last, and all he could see was an empire of furniture, probably all exactly where it all had been, since the death of the great king. And now the two of them sat there so quietly: one dozing; the other feeling the strange stagnation of the racing rogue planet, spiraling between suns and collapsed suns and wormholes, lurking in guilt and calling it glory. And he still didn't know if the wormholes were real, or entirely made-up. But all the questions came out now, like angry ghosts to perch on every silent seat around him.

Of course he knew that wormholes themselves were real, elsewhere in the galaxy: the insanely small, sometimes impossibly long connections between super-dense points on the space-time continuum, but very difficult to keep opened, much less intact, for more than the tiniest fraction of a second. And for the remnants of a civilization to survive in there, inside, for however long it was… seventy, eighty, a hundred years? In their defeated spacecraft? The Mahlons would have to live on recycled air and "water" and "food," as nomads, eternally scorned from ever emerging at all, as their victors plumbed the depths, in a guilty transit back and forth, waiting for those vanquished ships again.

And yet, inside those desperate straits, those former neighbors would have to hold fast (he imagined) to some strangled hope of life, beyond the infinitely small confines of their hostile existence. Could they really have survived for all those decades, crushed into the almost non-existence: between the very energy sources that fueled Chilion, the world of their conquerors? And if the scales were suddenly balanced and the nomads set free, would Allena's civilization simply fall and turn to ice, powerless and adrift? It was all too cruel, and incredible, to believe, any way he looked at it. However advanced they must have been, to have developed the sheer mathematics of a gravity weapon, the Mahlons themselves would have to live on almost nothing in the wormholes, while another world lavishly exploited their knowledge and resources. Incredible, but also a nearly immutable law of the Universe.

And, of course, the beautiful girl in charge of it all now nestled against Kirk's side, and couldn't possibly have known the answers to any of those questions. And soon the men who did would die, in their beautiful apartments above the parks and promenades.

Finally, gingerly, he picked Allena up and carried her out past the red-eyed guards. He stirred the landing party in the hall, McCoy, Tamura, Johansen and Michaels, and they shook off their own sleepiness to follow him out to the windy ledge of the tower, high in the cold and cloudy sky. There, he placed her in the back of a long black car that hovered just beyond an inch-wide chasm in the dark: a gap that seemed infinitely wider than any wormhole ever was. And with the luxurious, bland reassurance of great wealth, their drivers sped them back to the palace tower, where Jim Kirk would lie in bed, just thinking, for several hours.

At long last, the USS _Enterprise _tilted gracefully back into orbit over Allena's world, though it was an orbit that kept the ship nearly opposed to the newly errant moon, as the debris cloud spread over half the planet. Almost immediately, repairs commenced upon the shuttle bay doors, two shuttles themselves zipping out with EVA crews ready to unroll the long crescent-shaped panels that would replace those scarred in battle the previous day.

Jim Kirk stepped off the pad in the transporter room, and the others soon followed, in two beamings.

"Where's Mr. Spock," Lt. Kyle enquired, as the group shook off the dust of another world. The captain had already disappeared out into the corridor.

"He wants to learn how to make a gravity beam," Lt. Riley muttered, passing the transporter control board, with the others.

"But that's where Mr. Scott and Mr. O'Neil have gone!" Kyle just shook his head in dismay, at the wastefulness of it all.

When he stepped onto the bridge, James T. Kirk was satisfied to see a "cutaway" diagram of the moon, showing a sensor probe of the inner layers and core of the satellite already on display on the main viewscreen.

"Report, Mr. Sulu," he said, as the navigator practically leapt out of the command seat, and into his usual place at the forward console. One of the bridge standby's, Mr. Leslie, had been monitoring the controls there and retreated to the environmental in the upper ring.

"It'll crack apart, sir," Sulu nodded, as both men looked up at the screen, "but probably not for another solar week."

"Present danger to inhabitants?"

"Outside of the impact area, minimal, sir. When we first got here, we mapped a lot of farming acreage, but very few humanoid readings."

"Lieutenant Palmer," Kirk said, turning to the beautiful blond at the communications station, "has Starfleet been notified?"

"Yes sir, but we've had to re-route subspace through Rigel. No reply to our status reports."

"Very good," he mumbled, automatically though, of course, it was not good at all. He tried to imagine the curving corridors of the _Enterprise _crammed with refugees, if his was the only ship on hand to evacuate the planet, but immediately dismissed the notion as wildly impractical. Until it actually happened; and then it would become unpleasantly… unavoidable.

"Ten day simulation."

Subbing at the science console, Mr. Chekov inserted a yellow memory plaque into the computer port, and re-set the time-frames with the touch of two buttons. In a moment, the main viewscreen had three different simulations on it, from left to right, in descending order of probability, playing over and over, like the end of one of Mr. Exmoor's disastrous space-feelies.

"Eighty percent on the left," Chekov said, trying to focus his own mind as sharply as Mr. Spock's. "Due to rapid cooling of the fractured core, and the strain of the collision, the moon should split as shown, approximately seventy/thirty, forming two new bodies with minor debris."

Then, the center simulation enlarged, at the touch of a button.

"Seventeen percent probability: some minor core repair is accomplished by steady phaser fire," Chekov said, in an almost disinterested way, as if steering his captain away from the idea. "But still the moon fractures, probably worse than before, due to our own lack of expertise."

"And three percent," Kirk nodded, "no fracturing at all."

"Affirmative, Keptin."

"And those are our three alternatives," Kirk mused.

"Unless we return to their enslavement," Chekov shrugged, helpfully, "and use our varp drive to let them keep the status quo."

"At least then," Sulu said, almost to himself, from half-way across the bridge, "they don't freeze to death."

"Well," Kirk said, folding one leg over the other in an almost comical gesture of relaxation, "at least we have… a week or so. To think about it."

There was no communication with either Spock or Mr. Scott, to avoid drawing attention to their smaller craft. But, now and then, Chekov thought he had a glimpse of one of their vessels, against the background disturbance of the Pocket.

"Look at that, will ye, Mr. O'Neil?"

The lieutenant leaned toward the shuttle control panel, and pulled a hinged metallic arm toward him, that displayed a sensor read-out on an eyeball-shaped display.

"Looks like a very small space station or probe, probably unmanned," O'Neill said, though, as usual, he appeared certain of absolutely nothing. Quickly he checked the view portholes above (though it was still much too far to be seen with the naked eye) and then the instruments below for confirmation.

"Aye. Set us a course there, first. Might be a little easier to get into."

And the shuttle veered off to starboard, from where they'd been watching the "great ribcage," as they'd decided to call it: an immense, open and curving black metal structure that seemed to house a series of outer-space factories, now sweeping off to the port side as they turned. Clearly, it was too busy to approach unnoticed.

The view back toward Earth, and the whole brilliant panorama of the galaxy, was weirdly punctuated and puckered by the intervening black holes, which turned the vast arm of stars and interstellar gases into a hodge-podge of unfamiliar, glowing images. Some star clusters were crushed together by the visual distortion, into single blobs of light; while others were magnified to appear much closer, by gravitational lensing. In any case, the new arrangement certainly didn't look like "home."

"Aye," Scotty said again, once they'd zipped across the several billion miles to the object that now lay in their path. "Looks like the same kind of cannon we had in the shuttle bay," with the grim self-assurance of a policeman touring a bad part of town. O'Neil nodded in agreement, and they dropped out of warp drive. The whole structure was about four times the size of those black cannon ships that had sucked themselves onto the hull of the _Enterprise_, and this larger one had attitudinal thrusters pointing every-which-way on most of the corners, as though it were intended to just float out here indefinitely. And then, at the far end was that one, long firing barrel: just pointing out into nowhere, like a battle tank that had floated far out to sea, in the majestic confusion of a D-Day landing. And here it sat, for no good reason.

The shuttle flipped nose-up, relative to the outpost, and in a moment the under-side of the Federation vessel was sealed over an access panel on the smallest side of the remote Chilion object. After leaning down into the airlock with their tricorders, the two engineers sat quietly, checking their readings for a moment. Then, as if un-stopping a drain, Mr. Scott simply reached deep inside to twist a hand-hold at the bottom. With a "pop!" of air, the hatch opened, and both men slid down, into zero gravity inside.

"What can we do, sir?" O'Neil glanced around in the darkened crawl-space, and then back up into the airlock, to the reassuring light from the shuttle cabin above.

"Give them a taste of their own medicine, for one thing, lad," the Scotsman grumbled, slipping down farther into the mechanism, between bulkheads that now seemed strangely familiar from the ruins in the shuttle bay. Cautiously, at first, he began playing with the touch-pads on one of the alien keyboards.

Then, suddenly a whole wall of lights and instruments came to life, with an almost inaudible whir from a power source. Mr. Scott pushed himself back from the blinking, blazing alien controls in cool satisfaction, squinting as his eyes adjusted.

"There we go," he said to himself, and began searching for control menus on a computer that seemed to be formatting endlessly as O'Neil floated above, upside down, and looking over his shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Ten**

Half-way to the great black ribcage themselves, Spock and Exmoor were intercepted by a larger military vessel. Much farther out, were stars squeezed into odd shapes glowing across the barrier, like banks of luminous coral, or frozen cataracts of waterfall above a luminous spray.

"That is… a transport ship," Exmoor said, looking up as the ship grew from a point of light to a sort of broad-headed corkscrew before them. He tapped several little light panels on the controls before him, and they waited a moment, before the ship darted away again, on its own journey across the space between the plasma pinwheels and Allena's own world.

"Do you have any 'historical' documents," Spock asked, trying to word things very carefully, "to show the true nature of your war-time adversaries?"

"Well, I have dozens of feelies in the computer here," Exmoor said, barely able to hide his own enthusiasm to show his own life's work, but already knowing the Vulcan well enough to shelve the idea of a private film festival. "Most of them were made by Hindemunt, after the merger with Vandrew. Lots of action, lots of romance," he smiled.

"Perhaps something more… in the nature of a 'documentary,' would be sufficient," Spock said.

Exmoor let out a little, deflated sigh, but managed to resurrect his reserve of self-confidence as he tapped on another control panel, waking another monitor screen overhead, larger than the others at their fingertips below.

In a moment, as they hurried onward, the screen overhead came to life with a series of dramatic crowd scenes, people on fire with emotion as troops marched past, and ships blasted into space far above, after stomping into the Chilion soil with their boosters. Spock recognized it was Exmoor's own voice reading the narration within the video.

Dramatic music echoed along with every heavy beat of the troopers' march, and crescendoed as each rocket shot up into the heavens. Eventually, the perspective changed and the screen showed the world below, from a roaring rocket.

There were no majestic, floating towers, and no signs of hovercraft, and no strangely glowing moon to be seen; and from this Mr. Spock knew right away he was viewing the world before the world he knew. No great hexagonal oceans, and the lush forests that covered the dry land now had not yet been planted—in their place were regular cities with streets and buildings stretching out in all directions, lit by the light of a very typical four-to-six billion year old star.

And then the view shifted again, and a mighty space battle ensued, or was re-enacted, or both. An heroic death scene was played out, and justice or vengeance was sworn and swiftly meted out. To an outsider like Spock, it was all rather dull and predictable. But to Mr. Exmoor, it seemed fraught with emotion and captured his full attention.

"When do we see your enemies?" Spock asked politely.

"Shh!"

Once again, Exmoor's own recorded voice marched on, like a dispassionate god, over shots of ruined ships and crying mothers, back on the home planet, and the swelling music that signaled an end to the proceedings. After a moment, the old actor turned to look at the Vulcan, for a reaction.

"Well?"

Spock was neither pleased nor displeased, but seemed more like an early scientist, removing one little glass slide from under a microscope, and now looking (almost wearily) around for another glass slide to examine next.

"It was…" Spock began, not really having an "exit plan" for the sentence, but unable to deny the actor's imploring stare.

"Yes?"

Spock realized he was being called on to give an appraisal of the artistic or perhaps patriotic components of the visual documentation he'd just witnessed. Why his opinion should be of such interest was, of course, quite beyond his own understanding, but he was familiar enough with non-Vulcans to have some idea of the need for validation.

"It was clearly in the long tradition of a victor's hagiography, and showed all the signs of professional and artistic completion, in a lineage that could trace its beginnings to such works as Earth's Homeric exploits, to the works of Leni Riefenstahl, and the visual and personal narratives excavated by Ken Burns, concerning the struggle to end slavery. And on through to Elizabeth Havermeyer, recounting the early, desperate Romulan clashes, endured in the most primitive of star ships. I should also hasten to point out that no such emotionally charged historical works exist on my own world. But I am, after years of study, somewhat able to appreciate the form." And then, unintentionally adding insult to injury, Spock gave a polite little nod, as if completing some dull ritual of humanoid socialization at long last: somewhere between a dry handshake and a very ritualized waltz.

Exmoor seemed about to say something in return, though his own look of buoyant expectation had gradually worn away, like an Ozymandian visage, to a sort of wounded disappointment. The two men flew along together, in silence, for some time after.

"Ach," Scotty said suddenly, pausing as he went through the various computer menus again and again, inside the gravity cannon. He seemed to be wrestling with something in his own mind, and impatient to be done with whatever it was.

"What is it," O'Neil wondered, still hanging upside down over his shoulder, his tricorder floating in front of his chest. The air inside the little space buzzed with something pervasive, like electricity, and the air from the shuttle gradually grew warmer around them.

"I don't know, lad," he answered, backing off the controls in a kind of consternation. "I think I'd better check back with the ship, and make sure she's all right."

O'Neil pushed himself out of the way, and Scotty slid past, upward, into the shuttlecraft again. The junior officer paddled gently farther down into the control bank, quietly examining what appeared to be a system of batteries and cables, when he noticed one of the main control screens behind him, below his boots now, was flashing black and white. As he turned around and drifted back up to the central array, he could see a long column of programming phrases rushing upward on a screen, from bottom to top, like an epic poem of protocols. The lines of instructions would halt suddenly, and then jolt back into action again. He couldn't help wondering if he'd accidentally kicked a switch somewhere, as he passed a minute ago, and the sensation of guilt and growing panic made him examine all the other controls for any other signs of change. He even looked into his tricorder for a visual record of the switches and buttons, and where they had been set, just before Mr. Scott had drifted away. But it seemed like a wasted effort, as now all the readouts were looking different, and he couldn't possibly have kicked every one of them…

"Mr. Scott," he called, up toward the shuttle cabin. He could hear the chief engineer trying to contact the _Enterprise, _far away at the planet, via subspace. Not wanting to be left behind if something awful were about to happen, and not having any recourse to stop whatever _seemed_ to behappening, O'Neil swam upward and climbed back into the shuttle, to catch his commander's attention.

Then a rumbling down in the remote outpost grew until it shook the shuttle, as well. O'Neil hauled himself out of the airlock, like someone anxious to get out of a swimming pool before lightning struck, and (for good measure) kicked the hatch closed behind him. Scotty was up and out of his pilot's seat with a strange, imploring look on his face. O'Neil could only stare back in amazement.

And then, all at once, the terrible rumbling stopped, and the silence began to seem twice as bad. Only the polite telemetric sounds emanated, as usual, from the shuttle controls. Both men were frozen where they stood, waiting to see if anything would happen next. And after a moment, it seemed they were safe.

"Let's see if we can do that, again, lad," Scotty said, suddenly intrigued.

A few minutes later, O'Neil holding his breath the whole time, they examined their tricorder readings and tried to make the cannon controls roughly the same as before.

"Aye, I think that's as close as we're gonna get, Mr. O'Neill," the chief engineer said, without any apparent satisfaction. The two men floated side-by-side, gingerly touching one button, and then another, and studying the energy reaction on one tricorder, as they matched them up with the last active readouts from the other handheld device.

Then, a minute or two later, they just started trying different ideas at random: tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence that absolutely nothing would happen, either way, no matter what they did.

"Maybe if we shake it," O'Neill joked, in a quiet way, as the gravity cannon refused to engage. Scotty reacted silently, as if it were just a bad joke, quickly to be forgotten. And then, perhaps inevitably, he gave a little laugh, remembering the one time in his life when something like that actually worked.

"Get up above and see if ye can put a little spin on us, or somethin'," he said, smiling and feeling like a fool at the same time. Then, as O'Neil disappeared up into the shuttle, his boots just hitting the deck above, Scotty added, with a sudden cautious impulse, "not too much, though."

Now he was alone, confronted by a wall of levers and panels and touch-pads.

"Ach," Scotty said, pessimistically, to himself now, "she'll probably just lock down completely." And, a little impatiently, he jabbed a few more buttons, thinking it was some sort of sequence he'd seen in the tricorder playback, wanting to try one more meaningless idea before they called it a day.

The rumbling began again, with the same programming instructions racing up the monitor screen, just as before.

"Are we movin'?"

There was no reply from above. But the rumbling grew to an intolerable roar, which Scotty could feel coming through his floating boots, and straight up through the marrow of his bones. And this time, it continued, unstoppable.

"Message from the planet," Lt. Palmer said, as the captain continued going through logs and reports in the center of the bridge.

"On screen."

"It seems to be a personal message, from the royal princess, Captain."

If he took the call in his cabin, he'd end up spending the rest of the morning writing condolences for the families of the crewmen who died the other day in the gravity beam, which he wasn't in the mood for, right now. And he was over half-way finished with the reports in his lap and, well, something just told him to stay put, for some reason.

She appeared on the bridge screen in an elegantly tailored white suit-dress, with a matching hat that was nearly spherical in shape. But strangely, she wouldn't look up at the transmission camera, or the monitor to see him. That's how he knew something was wrong.

"Allena, what is it?"

"I just wanted to… express my deepest gratitude for all of your help…"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, though now her countenance sank even more, till she seemed to be struggling against fainting on the chair in her suite.

"I'll be back down in a few hours. To discuss emergency planning."

"No, that won't be necessary." And then he just sat and watched her, for what seemed like forever, till she finally looked up at him, on her own screen. And she seemed so remote, so academic in her recognition of her first great love. Except for her dark eyes, which were shining like a street after the rain.

Now Kirk was utterly mystified and vaguely fearful on a level he was quite unaccustomed to, for he realized that she was about to break up with him. And it was a sensation he had almost never felt before, in so one-sided a manner. He became aware of the formal tidiness of everyone around him on the bridge, how all of the usual movement, the swiveling of chairs, the leaning to reach for the farthest instruments on control panels, and occasional glances left or right, had all vanished. Everyone seemed to be smaller, and slightly petrified: looking down and wishing they could be somewhere else, rather than here to witness this painful, personal moment.

Of course, something within him wanted to cry like a child, something that brushed heavily against his heart, like a broom held by time or fate or some antique god that was sweeping him aside, and he could feel its bristles against the backs of his eyes, as well, and then against the fronts, as if he'd been thoroughly shoved out of the way.

"Is Mr. Babbington there, with you?" He didn't mean it to sound jealous but, in an odd way, of course it did. Everything he wanted to say or do seemed ridiculous, all of a sudden, and everything she said or did seemed somehow inevitable.

"You may come down, if you wish," she said, at last. But once again, she was looking at the corner of her room, where the wall met the floor, and not up at him.

"Is it because your brother died? Because your towers are falling? Because your energy has been cut off?"

"I suppose I'm just not accustomed to the wild pitch and yaw of great events," she said, trying to chuckle at herself, but half turning away, looking down, as she realized the little attempt at a well-rehearsed girlish giggle sounded too dark and strangled at this particular moment. Her beautiful neck had become exposed, and the arteries stood out, as if she'd surrendered herself to a pack of wolves.

"You're a grown woman, Allena," he said, at last, wondering if the connection would be entirely broken at any moment.

"I know," she said, still looking at some speck on the carpet, nearly over her shoulder.

"From a great and long-lived civilization," he added.

"I don't care about that," she said, and started to cry openly. Below the viewscreen, the telemetry lights, blinking back and forth like the impact of a tennis ball in a furious, invisible game, lit up here and there, in a way that seemed utterly meaningless and maddening at this particular moment. When the turbolift doors opened behind him, it threw a shaft of light out against the backs of Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekov, and he was suddenly embarrassed again. A yeoman appeared with more reports, and waited at his side, utterly unaware of the tension of the moment.

"We have to find a way to keep everything from freezing," he said, feeling sickened by the inevitable metaphor.

"I'm sure everything will be fine," she said, at last, taking a deep breath of air. "After all, our scientists are terribly clever." But she raised a white-gloved hand now, and closed the top of her white jacket.

"I'll be down again in a few hours," he said again, feeling the entire pressure of Starfleet and the Federation, in the presence of the bright-faced young yeoman at his side, eagerly awaiting his signature on the wedge-pad she proffered.

"I know," Allena said, and then the screen rippled and nearly went blank, before rippling again, in its imagery, to reveal the planet and the horrible dark patch where the moon had grazed against it. Nearly the whole hemisphere around it had gone murky with clouds. And the wounded moon had gone round to the other side.

He couldn't feel his arms, as he took the reports and signed them, watching his hand scribble his own signature before giving it back to the girl in the gold miniskirt at his side: the only one on deck who seemed to resemble anything like a recruiting poster at the moment. And then she pertly marched away, as he fought to dispel a dark cloud from enveloping him now.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he got up and went down to sickbay. Dr. McCoy, quite reliably, was working at his little desk, under the watchful gaze of a shelf full of bleached alien skulls, neatly arranged behind a sliding glass panel.

"I may be ready for those shots now," Kirk said quietly, as Nurse Chapel thoughtfully retreated to the next room.

If he expected Dr. McCoy to look relieved or to slap down his writing stick and slap his hands together in some decisive moment of exuberance, the captain was a little surprised. Leonard McCoy did neither, but regarded his friend with a kind of stunned, saddened amazement.

"Jim, I don't think I could do that."

"Why not?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and almost ducked his head down, as if he were avoiding a headache that swung toward him like a wrecking ball.

"Jim," the doctor said, and then stopped. Then, still seeming distracted, he made a little half-gesture toward a plain chair on the other side of the desk. The sound of the engines humming in the distance, and the air sighing through the overhead vents, and the distant chatter of voices all seemed to cancel each other out.

"These people, even Allena, the girl down there," McCoy said, folding his hands together and resting his chin on top, as his eyes wandered from blank wall, to computer screen, to a patch of the deck just beyond Kirk's boots. "They don't struggle anymore; except to keep things the same. And we all know that's not the way the Universe works. That, the minute your body stops struggling to stay alive, something in your brain… is uneasy. I don't want to say they're 'evil.' But maybe there's something essentially wrong with their success. Or, anybody's!"

"Then I'm so glad I got dumped just now," Kirk said.

McCoy searched his features for a moment, before putting his own hands in his lap, and leaning back a bit.

"Jim, we'll be moving on soon. You stopped these people from hijacking innocent ships and sucking their power dry, to support some ridiculously high standard of living. If their cities lie in ruins, it's simple justice."

"Bones, she's so wonderful."

"Hm."

"And if they had warp-drive of their own, they'd probably be no worse than we are," Kirk supposed.

"And if we didn't, we'd be just like our great-great-grandfathers, pumping oil out of faraway deserts, and bribing dictators, who crush rebellion. Till rebellion crushes them."

"Oil runs out."

"Not ambition," McCoy said.

Now, both men sat in silence, and Nurse Chapel strode purposefully through again, scooping up a little stack of memory plaques from a computer station at the other end of the little office, and then bustling out again.

"Did you know their people just gradually fall apart?" Now it was Jim Kirk, suddenly dispensing medical information.

"Everybody falls apart, Jim."

"No, I mean, the old men: they lose a leg, or both, and just gradually they're gone, bit by bit. Till Uncle Ezra just gets lost under the couch, I suppose."

McCoy resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. He could hear Allena's style of speech coming out of Kirk's mouth, and it bothered him. Though what a young man or woman didn't know about hospitals and geriatrics was, of course, their own business. Finally, Kirk looked at McCoy, as a flint might look to a match, waiting for some kind of spark.

"Jim," McCoy repeated, "we'll be moving on, soon. Somebody will catch a disease, and somebody will go crazy, and, who knows, somebody might even die. But it won't change the essential nature of any of the people living down there—on any of these planets. You and I, we fly around in a big tin can, and if something goes wrong, the tin can scoops us up, and we move on. And if something goes wrong with the tin can, another tin can comes along and fixes things. And we move on."

Now Jim Kirk's eyes drifted away, to study the empty eye sockets inside the cabinet on one wall, each resting in a skull of perfect indifference, and each seeming fearsome, stripped of its natural padding and color.

"But the rest of the galaxy," McCoy sighed. "They pile up some credits, they apply to get a world of their own, full of ideals and good intentions. But the hard work is more than tilling fields and keeping livestock and staying alive. The hard work is… moving on."

"And she knows I'll be moving on."

"Of course. She's a fool if she doesn't." And when Kirk's eyes finally met the doctor's, it was clear the same statement applied to him, too.

"Yes or no, Bones," Kirk said, slapping his hand lightly on his own black trousers. "In the Federation or not," he added, as a clarification.

"You're asking me?"

"I'd be a fool if I didn't," Kirk smiled.

"I'd say yes, if only to keep them from doing worse to the next ship that passes by. And to keep innocent people down there from complete and utter destruction."

"They are their own worst enemies," the captain admitted.

"Well, I guess we're stuck here, until some accommodation can be reached," McCoy said, still strangely upbeat about the whole thing.

"Do you actually get pleasure out of my romantic misadventures, Bones?" Kirk's initial surprise had turned to haughty comedy.

"As a matter of fact, I do. The wind blows, the sail stretches out like a young man's chest, going into battle. The wind stops, and the young man slows, and everything seems to pass him by. Till the wind comes up again."

Kirk shook his head, and silently beseeched the heavens to relieve him of this poetic wisdom.

"Haven't heard from Spock, or Scotty, have we?" McCoy was now fully intent on his little work screen.

"No. I'm afraid it would tip them off," Kirk said, frustrated again, thinking of the danger of sneaking up on a venal, wounded empire, as his science officer and chief engineer were doing, right now.

The little boatswain's whistle sounded politely in McCoy's computer. He touched a lighted oval switch. "Sickbay."

"Doctor," Palmer's voice came soothingly, "message for the captain."

"Go ahead," Kirk said, sitting up straighter now.

"Message from the princess Allena, sir: requesting you for dinner at your convenience."

Kirk nodded as if he'd expected just such a thing though, of course, he hadn't. "Acknowledged. Kirk out."

He got up, and walked to the automatic doors to the corridor.

"Wind comes up…" McCoy said quietly, with a smile, and returned to his record-keeping.

Jim Kirk stepped into a turbolift a few moments later, standing next to helmsman Pavel Chekov. After exchanging familiar nods and polite, vague smiles, Chekov spoke, as the lift rose up to the bridge.

"Forgive me for asking, Keptin," he began, "but are you still… romantically involved… with the lady on the planet?"

Kirk shrugged and raised his eyebrows at the unexpectedly personal question, and his own inability to answer the question with any degree of certainty.

"I'm not sure, Pavel."

Chekov nodded, staring off into space, though that dimension was somewhat confined by the capsule wall. "If you don't know, then probably you are. It's the nature of women," he insisted, with confident reassurance.

"How did you hear about this?"

The doors to the bridge opened up, and Chekov ducked his head toward Kirk's shoulder. "I vas on the bridge, then I was down below decks. Then, here I am again!" It was all the explanation either officer required.

Kirk stepped forward and took the block-shaped captain's chair, swiveling casually in one direction, and then the other, his recent heartbreak quite forgotten, though his eyes lingered for a moment on the glowing, cracking moon, rising around the far side of the planet.

"Captain!" It was Mr. Sulu, looking into the tactical monitor screen that was risen up from his navigation console.

"On screen."

The orbital view of the planet shimmered and faded, as if a wave of water were washing it away. Then the crew on the bridge gazed at something like an enormous ruddy dust storm on the planet, from some much lower vantage point below: an impenetrable cloud, with tendrils of moon dust leading out from the slow-moving wave.

And there, from the dust cloud, came smoldering tall banks of lights. They seemed for a moment like some hellish vision of the Mahlons, emerging from their own underworld, in vengeful return. But it was the floating towers themselves, coming out of the choking blanket that had suddenly covered most of the northern hemisphere, and the old realm. Slowly, each tower gradually became clearer on the viewscreen: first as a faint glow, then a dream-like grid of warm colored lights, and finally as a recognizable building, each emerging as floating wanderers into the desert, one by one.

Kirk shook his head at the pure determination of this world to go its own way. Then he reached out for a slant-pad. Magically, a yeoman appeared at his elbow and presented the miniature writing desk. And now he was finally getting down to the business of writing death-letters to the families of the men and women who'd lost their lives at the plasma harvest.

He tapped around on the writing screen with his finger till he'd found the list of those who died, and called up a photo and service record of each, who'd made their own final voyage under his command. He began imagining himself standing before a line of young officers. And instead of giving them medals, he was sweeping each one up in his hands like brittle sandcastles, till the sand from each drained into the long sleeves of his own tunic, and up into his chest, and his heart was crushed by the weight.

Three were from Earth, and two were from Rigel. One was from little colony outposts, going from one to another till she got into Starfleet, and the last was evidently a clone of some much-admired scientist. So, this was that soul's step-fate, unless someone deemed he'd live again, if the preserved body were still viable for cloning again. Born to space, died to space: perhaps to live again.

Did he have someone to write to, about this young man's death? There was a scientific colony to contact, and Kirk made a note to preserve the remains. Naturally, when he sighed quietly to himself, he glanced up to see the great towers emerging continuously, one after another, from the wall of billowing dust along the equator.

"That's what you died for, son," the captain muttered. The young yeoman next to him was startled, but covered her little jump with a bow of the head, though it seemed unlikely she'd heard his words exactly. He paused to imagine the fame of the cloned boy's progenitor. Not to mention the quirky reverence with which a few microscopic cells were turned into a baby, and finally, a man. There must have been the extravagance of education and the unlikely ascension to the Academy, and the twist of fate that placed that re-incarnated explorer on the greatest flagship of the fleet. Someone went to a great deal of trouble, just to have that boy choke to death on his own blood_._

He tried to clear his head of all of that, and write the details of the boy's death as nobly as he could, with an understanding of the boy's borrowed life. And then, most painfully, to imagine and explain how, working together, in the smallest agonizing steps, the whole crew had managed to secure freedom for those who survived. And how, in duty, he played as much a role as any man inching their ship free.

And yet, when someone got the news, five thousand light-years from here, they'd need something more than just a terse little telegram. He wrote, furiously, and with too much force, streamlining his stoic poetry as best as he could. He knew that he was passionate by nature, and that people who knew him tended to smile whenever he'd start "giving a speech," but there were times when nothing else would do.

And in another hour or maybe two, Jim Kirk would be sitting in one of those great floating towers, running away from the choking dust into clear skies, with deserts or shimmering oceans below.

He felt very still and very tired after writing. And when he looked up again at last, for just a fraction of a second, the blinking lights all around him in the curve of the bridge had become an unbearably grand set of laurel leaves that stretched that was far too vast for his head. And then, the illusion went away, as his eyes focused properly.

Once again, he began to hear the distant chatter of reports filtered into the bridge stations, and the computer voices and the endless call-and-response affirmations of believing man could fly through empty space in a shirt-sleeve environment, if he just managed every second properly. But, for just a fraction of a moment, he didn't believe it at all. He lifted the writing pad off his lap and held it out to his left and, of course, a yeoman took it to be put into the ship's computer and sent off by subspace transmission, through some ridiculously convoluted route around the barrier of black holes, so that seven mothers in seven homes on Earth and Rigel and far-flung colonies could have their lives pinched off and suddenly segmented like sausages, into "before" the news, and "after." And one little science lab would get the news, and perhaps remorse would be put away in a file somewhere, and scientific detachment would wick away like water in the driest desert air. And then each family would go through the whole painful realization again, some weeks or months later, when the physical remains arrived. But the thought that anyone, even a scientist, might want to put themselves through all of the trouble again seemed too much to contemplate.

As the usual sort of chess game in his mind, he began thinking about his dinner with Allena, down on the planet. She would be the most perfect flower of her civilization and, theoretically, he would try to be the same for his. And each would be wavering in the breeze of doubts and events, on the long and bending stalks of all the generations of ambitious men and women before them, who'd imagined great things somewhere down the line. So far, he didn't feel like anything really had happened, except that he'd watched as she dithered back and forth, and her progenitors schemed away, and took greater and greater chances, and caused more and more damage. What next, he wondered: his own head on a guillotine? Better than choking to death on one's own blood, he supposed. And grander. No matter what happened, he sneered at an imaginary reflection of himself, his own death was sure to be far grander.

He imagined the _Enterprise's_ powerful phaser banks sending vicious blue-white streams of fire down on the planet below, and its self-important towers twisting and sending wreckage billowing downward like feathers from a pillow, high above the six-sided oceans. One by one, he could picture trails of smoke and fire and… well, what kind of dinner chat would that be?

Then he remembered Spock and Scotty, each one crawling along toward some unlikely rendezvous with some long-gone, probably long-dead, vanquished foe: an enemy that had probably been crushed down to a Plank's length on the surface of one or two of the dead stars at the edge of the local reality, decades ago. But he was at least fairly certain neither of his friends would end up like that. Just as he was fairly certain he would walk out of this mess himself, at least half-alive.


	11. Chapter 11

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Eleven**

He didn't really notice her newest, extravagant dress, and he tried not to acknowledge her luminous eyes, and he very nearly found her hairdo to be ridiculous, as they lightly embraced an hour later.

"What's wrong," she would ask him, any minute now, and he'd have to explain about the pile of death-letters he'd just written that afternoon. And then she'd express her remorse, mixed up with her own sense of helplessness, and he'd just have to admit that she was a victim of circumstances, and so on and so forth. It was the least carefree "carefree romance" he could remember.

So, he tried to get ahead of all of that, and just be the "young captain," or rather, the _youngest starship _captain, which was supposed to be several orders of magnitude sexier, of course. And still, phaser-fire raced through his veins. It was threatening to become one of those Jane Austen moments, where the man was stiff and distracted, and the young woman would soon begin feeling like she was dealing with a moody but powerful little boy.

"I'm not sure what we're supposed to be doing here, together," Kirk had to admit, as she drifted up behind him at a wall of windows, though she still hadn't asked what was troubling him. Below was a whole new vista: canyons and mesas and a series of dark green splotches, oases that seemed to follow a river out to their left. Back out to the right, now a hundred kilometers or more distant, the weird wall of dusty clouds loomed to the north. The little islands of green would be swallowed up before the night was done, he realized. A shimmering artificial ocean had nearly passed out of sight below them, and the white sailboats near the southern-most edge raced along silently, as if fleeing the looming orange storm.

"Oh, I don't know," she admitted, glumly, leaning her head against his arm now, in weary, comical resignation, and finally (after some effort) lacing her cool fingers into his warm hand. "Half my uncles think you should be put to death, and half of them think we should get married right away, or something. It's not very helpful, when all old men think your life is so simple."

"And what do you want?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, her face rubbing across his shoulder again, looking back into the royal suite. "You'll be gone in a few days or a few weeks. That makes the part of me that loves you want to strangle you. And then I feel guilty, and then I feel mad for feeling guilty. You see? Time makes everything we say or do or think into a kind of lie."

At that, he could only smile, for it was the first time a woman had ever let a sentimental, roguish man off the hook so easily. "So much for the old men, and one young woman. But what about your maid? What do the old women think?"

"Oh, don't even ask about that. She'd marry you herself, in a hearts' beat."

"We say 'heartbeat.'"

"Well, maybe, if you only have one heart. I suppose life would be much simpler then, too. You'd never have to argue with yourself, over what you wanted, or didn't want."

Now he really did smile, and finally turned to look at her, though it rankled his sense of duty, slightly, and the gold braid at his collar chafed his neck.

"We have two minds," he explained.

"You mean, two minds, between us? That may be the nicest thing a man has ever said to me," she said, leaning her head back in a pretense of ecstasy, as though she were being swept off her feet, like a woman in a romance feelie.

"No, two halves to our—human—minds, each."

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry. How confusing for you! You must find yourself always getting stuck in doorways and lingering over salad forks and dessert spoons all the time. It's a wonder you ever got out into space!"

"Look who's talking," he said, his human pride slipping out for a moment.

"Well, we are out in space! A long way from where we started," she insisted. "We just couldn't stand to be where we were. And we couldn't bear to leave our old world behind. How hearts-less would that be?"

"Don't give it a second thought," he said, as they truly embraced, for the first time in about a million years.

It wasn't solving anything, of course, but it was soothing to hold her, and to feel her trying to scoop up the bulk of his shoulders in her own arms. And yet, when he looked up, over the top of her elaborate hairdo, he could see the ruined atmosphere of the north, following them as the royal tower, and its glassy metropolis, its retinue of great buildings, flew south.

Finally, when he felt better—or, felt better about Allena—he drew away slightly, though their hands were still together.

"How many people do you have on this planet," he wondered.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, suddenly plunged against the shoals of mathematics. "Three hundred million? People keep popping out at a remarkable rate, it's hard to keep track."

That was far more than the _Enterprise _could ever hope to save, was his first grim thought.

"Care to try for three hundred million and one?" she smiled with a naughty twinkle in her eye.

"What is it about the seriousness of men," he said, ironically, "that always brings out the animal in women?"

"Is that really the way it is, all around the galaxy?" There was a pause as she gave up on trying to encompass his shoulders, and just playfully wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I'm still collecting data."

"Well," she sighed, "as long as it's in the interests of research."

But as soon as they'd come together, close as petals in a flower bud, Jim Kirk began pulling back, and gently pried her arms off of him, for the first time.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Look, I just can't. I'm sorry. There's too much going on, and this isn't helping any of it."

"Oh, I see."

"I mean, I'd like to, obviously," he added.

"Yes, obviously."

"But for all I know, I'll be tried as traitor when I get back to Starbase, for not putting a stop to all of this." He tugged his satin dress tunic down at the waist-line, so it was smooth and taut again over his chest, and straightened his hair. In doing so, he'd worked his way over to a mirror by a chest of drawers, and after a moment, she followed.

"Well, you've certainly tried," she said, lightly pressing her breast against the back of his upper arm.

"It's time for more than trying."

"Well, like what?"

"Here's the problem," he said, turning around, and leaning on the bureau behind him. "The only way you can keep up this astonishing way of life, this grandeur, is by hijacking ships with warp drive. And I've just lost a lot of good men because of it."

"Yes, I'm very sorry about that, but—"

"But if you don't have that capability, to harvest all the plasma energy around those black holes, and all the power goes out, and the buildings come crashing down, the next thing you know, you all just freeze to death."

"Yes, I know," she said, balancing herself warily now, a little bit away from him.

"But before you all die, or burrow deep underground to save yourselves from being out in the middle of nowhere without a real sun to keep you warm, we can help you." He paused and said it again, with increased emphasis: "We can _help_ you: we'll set up shelters and some kind of survival system. But we're taking down all the mechanisms of glory."

"But then we'd be just like anyone else," she said, with an innocence that was still somehow both charming and maddening, as she began to seem quite abandoned.

His reaction was shocking, to both of them. But her own words were like a punch in the chest to him, in some back-alley mugging in the middle of the night.

"You _are _just like anyone else. Don't tell me you're better. Don't tell me you're exceptional, or that you're the New Jerusalem, or whatever you want to call it. You're pushing everyone else down, to make yourself the shining city on a hill. And now it's over. And you can put my name on it, and call me the devil, if it suits your purposes."

As he spoke, in his fury, he had charged forward toward her, and taken her up by the shoulders in his hands, and spun her half-way around. And her own feminine arms had come flailing up in surprise, as she twisted to get free.

"And the sooner you get it into your head," he added, not quite ready to release her, "the fewer of your own people—and mine—will die a horrible death." He could see that she was trying to put up a wall of anger and pride in her regal, yet girlish face. But all of the color had drained out, and her lips had parted in a word-dry attempt at a grimace or a groan.

"I think you had better go," she said at last, looking down, her voice trembling. But he was already half-way to the balcony, where the moonrise had drawn abstracted, crimson shadows on the desert.

"I wish I could go, but I have a lot of work here, and I'm very far behind." He drew his communicator from the back of his belt and, in spite of his words, he was gone in a dazzle of golden light.

All she could do was sit on the bed, and stare out the window, and try not to cry.

And a few hours later, there were _Enterprise _crewmen down in the chilly sand, setting up tents and cables and plastic-looking tunnels, like the kind you'd see on an icy, remote moonbase. By the end of that day, a whole network of domes and tunnels was constructed though, of course, far too little to support the entire population from the coming disaster.

"It seems illogical," Mr. Spock said, as he and the old actor hovered in space, near the great black ribcage, "that an armada of demonstrably superior technology should fall at the hands of another force, much less advanced."

"Would you like me to apologize for winning?" Exmoor delivered the line with a mixture of humility and light-heartedness, as he looked up to the cockpit windows and down to the instruments at his fingertips.

"No," Spock continued, oblivious to the wry remark, "and, one must admit, it is equally illogical that such a superior force as the Mahlons should be driven into the fatal grasp of one of your black holes."

"They were very advanced," Exmoor said, "but I guess we just wouldn't give up. And, the thinking goes, that they must have been in some kind of tactical retreat. That one day they'll come sweeping out of the sky with a horrid vengeance."

"Indeed," Spock said, becoming less and less entranced with the entire equation. "I believe you refer to what is sometimes called a 'doomsday prophesy.'"

"Well," Exmoor said, perfectly at ease with the doubting Thomas at his side, "it's what a lot of people happen to believe: that our nature is to ravenously consume the power we worship; and that one day the towers will begin to fall. And then there'll come 'a great day of reckoning,' with all sorts of weeping and wailing," he added, letting one hand clench and then relax in an imitation of struggle and death, in the small cockpit. "So I suppose we're done with the first two, and now it's time for the reckoning!"

"And, is there a 'feelie' to correspond to this scenario?" Spock sighed, in one of the few times that he allowed his sarcasm to show so openly.

"I thought you'd never ask!" Exmoor said, oblivious to the Vulcan's withering tone, and typing away like mad into a touch-screen on the control panel.

But Mr. Spock was spared the torment of another fanciful re-telling of the collective subconscious, when a ship appeared on the scanning monitor above the controls. The primitive sonar-like device let out a low-pitched, clumsy sounding "boo-boop!" over and over, to indicate the other vessel was slowly coming their way. Gradually the sonar blip rose on a sort of musical scale, as the ship became visible and grew larger.

"It's a patrol ship," Exmoor said, verifying his guess by looking up and down, between the cockpit windows and the instrumentation. "If they take us into holding, just let me do all the talking."

Spock restrained an impulse to shake his head in dismay. For such a devoted pacifist, he was developing a remarkably long record of arrest.

A chilly-sounding voice hailed them, and soon they were following the patrol vessel toward the ribcage which was, of course, a space-station about the size of a very large sports arena, with several attendant structures or mother-ships stationed nearby, glowing in the darkness.

When they'd docked at a secondary control tower Exmoor popped the hatch and climbed out, with Spock following close behind. An affable-looking commander stepped up immediately to clasp hands with the old actor, and suddenly, from all up and down the height of the tower's stairwells and corridors, came a long cheer, as if some great victory had come, unexpectedly.

Spock looked up and down, through the echoing lattice-work of pipes and tubes and hoses, to see cheering men and women in uniform, leaning out over railings and waving and slapping hands against bulkheads and hollow ventilation tubes, creating a fearsome racket. Mr. Exmoor seemed to take it all in stride, acknowledging the thunderous reception with a smile and a wave of his hand. The roar continued until the two men had followed the commander out of sight, into a long corridor and, finally, to a pleasant office with a thick, green glass desk and countertops, and brass lamps here and there.

"Well, _you _certainly require no introduction, sir," the commander said, with a big, sardonic grin, as he sat down and bid the actor and Vulcan to sit across from him. "My name is Lysander, I'm chief of this base," he added, for Spock's benefit.

Spock looked inquiringly at Exmoor, remembering the actor's admonition, not to speak.

"Oh," the celebrity said, with a sudden start, "This is Commander Spock, science officer aboard the space-ship…"

"_Enterprise_," Spock completed, barely missing a beat.

"From the Union of, uh—"

"The United Federation of Planets."

"The United Federation of Planets," Exmoor recited, exactly as Spock had, as if he were being fed lines from just off-stage, and as if Mr. Lysander couldn't possibly have overheard. "From the planet…"

"Vulcan."

"Just so," Exmoor agreed, as if the whole thing had been carried off without a hitch.

"Well, a science officer may be just what we need around here," Lysander grumbled, amiably, like a poker player who might have drawn a particularly bad hand. "Look at this," he added, turning a computer screen around to face his two visitors.

There, on the flat screen, was an _Enterprise _shuttle-craft, linked to a small space-station. The visual image was very poor, grainy and distant, but easily identifiable to nearly anyone from a Federation culture. To avoid any contention, for the moment, Spock said nothing.

"It appears that one of our remote intelligence stations has been compromised by some unidentified vessel," the commander said, almost wearily, turning the computer screen half-way back toward himself, with a precise little jerk of his fingertips on the side of the frame. "And now it's acting all strange and funny," he added.

"In what way, sir?" It was the first time Spock had spoken without prodding.

"Well, these remote stations have been in place for decades, really, after the last great war," Lysander said, with a nod to Mr. Exmoor, as if the actor himself had probably fought and won the whole thing single-handedly. "They're designed to detect sub-dimensional pathways between collapsed stars, where we think the Mahlons could still be hiding out. And we don't want to be surprised, one day, to find out we're still in the middle of a terrible old war, instead of well-into the peace."

Spock nodded. But he didn't really think a worm-hole could be toyed with so easily, or turned into a kind of battlefront-refuge for the weary warrior. At least, not by any science he knew. The amount of energy it would take to "open" a wormhole, and the odds of surviving inside for seconds—let alone years—made the idea seem far-fetched indeed.

"I would very much like to see the designs for one of these remote stations," Spock said.

"Well, of course, that's classified," Lysander demurred. Again, Spock nodded.

"And," the Vulcan asked, politely, "you're quite sure this enemy of yours exists out there, somewhere."

"In a way," Lysander admitted, "our whole existence is built on the idea. Much of our technology came from their conquered bases, and captured ships, and ruined planet."

And from that, Spock began to surmise, there was a kind of "survivor's guilt" at work, here: that by imagining this old enemy (from a solar system these people had actually fled) was somehow still alive, they managed to convince themselves that enemy might possibly still be out in the void—or the void _beyond_ the void—plotting their revenge. No matter how slight the possibility might seem, they clinged to it, and every important decision now stemmed from it. And so, the victors' whole psychology had become the way of a desperate killer on the run, and so, the ultimate defeat.

"Fascinating," Spock said, at last, with a kind of pitying chill in his voice.

"I beg your pardon?" Lysander demanded, suddenly shaken and offended, at being startled from his own reverie. Spock quickly changed the subject.

"What danger could that pose," he wondered, looking across Lysander's desk, at the image on the screen, the _Enterprise _shuttlecraft, and the strange folded-wing, bat-shaped outpost.

"Well, at minimum, an alien vessel could damage the remote station beyond the point of repair. At maximum…" And now, in what seemed an utterly stagey and contrived manner, Lysander (a man of otherwise impeccable military bearing) slowly glanced over at Exmoor, with a dark expression.

"At maximum, we fear, it could unleash them from their refuge and prison."

At this, Spock actually smiled a very tiny bit, in amused astonishment. Neither of the other two men saw it, as they both seemed to be cringing, deep inside, very slightly, and looking down in deference to some unknown power. Naturally, the Vulcan quickly extinguished his foolish little smile. He looked around the room, at the various pictures hung on its walls, celebrating great assemblies of men in uniform, and the christening of great ships, and the bright happy faces of young soldiers, some of whom, inevitably, must never have lived to see their own old age. And the Vulcan chastened himself for his micro-second's amusement at their troubles, with an almost undetectable bow of his own head.

"Sir," came a voice over a little communicator-device on Lysander's shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Disturbance in tangent—tangent plane—seven-twelve-sub-four."

In his own mind, Spock had an entire map of all the possible lines connecting the string of black holes in the region though, of course, "sub-four" could be any other line that ran cross-wise through that loose, dark constellation (if he was understanding things correctly so far). But guessing which triangle of coordinates the plane consisted of was a little like trying to find a flaw in a diamond in a pool of water.

"That foreign craft?"

"I doubt it, sir."

"Go to full alert."

And almost instantly, a hard, metallic _honk-honk _began echoing through the ribcage station and its control towers, and Spock could see a bright, white light pulsing on and off in the corridor outside the office. Lysander rose, and so did Exmoor and Spock. Far out, beyond the observation glass, lights seemed to flicker in the distant enclosed tubes and gantries and gangways, as enlisted men and women scrambled to their posts and formations.

"Would you gentlemen care to accompany me in the main room?"

"She's got quite a mind of her own, Mr. Scott," O'Neil said, though he seemed half-amused by the reactions they were getting from the little space-station their shuttle was attached to.

"Aye, lad," the chief engineer grumbled, still completely mystified. "If we say 'orange,' it's for sure she'll hear 'ostrich.'" Communicating with an actual, living, breathing life form was always easier, for some reason. Machines? They were more like the half-hidden faces of the great-great-grandfathers of their designers.

"If ye can ever figure out a godforsaken alien contraption," Scotty said quietly, "you've broken every secret of who-ever built it."

"That's the engineer talking, sir," O'Neil smiled.

"Aye," Scotty agreed philosophically. "Well, it was either that, or run me uncle's bakery." From his tone, O'Neil couldn't tell if Mr. Scott was joking or not.

Then, with predictable unpredictability, the alien switches and lights came on again, like some long-dead nerves in a hopelessly numbed arm or leg: testing itself, and gradually coming back to life.

"There she goes again," Scotty said, literally throwing his hands up in exasperation. He'd been trying to provoke a reaction like this all day and now he sat back doing nothing, and it decided to get all excited.

Both men looked into their tricorders to see what was going on. Schematics of flowing energy traced themselves quickly on their screens, and then some estimates of power levels and polarities and the pathways to this way and that, and up and down the length of the little facility.

"Well, maybe she's getting her orders from that big outpost," Scotty said, remembering the black ribcage, half-way across the star-cluster.

"This stuff barely corresponds to their machinery at all, though," O'Neil observed, without ever having heard the stories of the vanquished enemy, or the stolen technologies, and without ever having been to the Chilion rib-cage itself. But even the laws of overlapping and complementary technologies, and the inevitable gaps in discovery and development (like mismatched holes in slices of Swiss cheese) couldn't account for all these hardware and software discrepancies. How could they have a gravity weapon, without being able to warp the plasma discs on their own; and how could they have floating cities and power streams that flowed across light-years of distance and manipulate their own path across the stars, without ever coming up with their own faster-than-light mode of travel? (And, needless to say, how could the Federation have warp drive and no gravity beams?)

"That's a queer thing, isn't it?" And now Scotty understood, too, that he was dealing with the designs of two separate cultures. For a minute, even as the alien instrumentation went blinking and blazing in his face, he just stopped to refresh his mind, and began sorting apart everything he'd seen and thought into two different piles.

"They're polyglots, that's for sure," the chief engineer sighed at last, resigning himself to the fact that he might never understand where everything came from, in this mission. Then, almost whimsically, he pushed several lighted buttons at once, but of course nothing seemed to happen. Now if Mr. Spock had done it, he wryly told himself, the whole outpost would have probably unfolded into a great _papier mache_ Chinese dragon. But, in the hands of a mere mortal, the instruments blinked when they should have been dark, and were dark when they should have blinked. If only technology and engineering could always be straightforward and direct.

"Ye shall live in houses ye did'na build, in lands ye did'na fight for," he said at last, remembering a bit of scripture that seemed to apply to the whole "borrowed technology" problem. He drummed his fingers on his tricorder, as they floated there, squeezed into the crawl-space that blazed with double-alien lights all around.

And then the red alert klaxon in the shuttle overhead started whooping like a mechanical squirrel at the sight of a mechanical cat, and the two men climbed out of the works to have a look at the scanners up in their own craft.

"I think we'd better get out of here, laddy," the chief engineer said, even as O'Neil kicked the hatch shut in the floor behind him.

The same young men and women who'd been cheering Mr. Exmoor not twenty minutes earlier now hurried around the great steely control tower, up and down the exposed spiral staircase that stretched down twenty levels or more. Meanwhile, the aged actor and the Vulcan followed the station commander into a low-ceilinged control room above the great arching framework of the ribcage, that spread out through the thick windows before them. The last of a series of heavy battle cruisers was pulling out through what would have been the diaphragm, if this really were a humanoid set of ribs. The ships before her stretched out into a line, with fierce engines as farewell.

In his head, Spock was assembling an equation to try to determine how much warp energy these people had got out of the _Amphora_ before all aboard were killed, to then match against the sheer energy of the wasted battle efforts soon to follow, launched against a long-gone adversary. At what point, he wondered, would the energy to be expended in a pointless battle be equal to all the energy used in the final weeks on board the _Amphora_, at a cost of over 300 innocent lives?

Initially, his equation looked something like this:

_w _(for "warp energy") x _d_ (days in energy harvest) = 325 (lives)

Then, there was the equation for the coming attack:

_w (sub 1) _(for "_war_ energy") x _h_ (for hours of battle) = _w _x _d_ (see above)

Which would, inevitably, lead to the final comparison, measuring wasted battle energy against innocent lives lost:

_w (sub 1)_ x _h _ = 325

In a millisecond, though, his temples ached and he added "+8," to the casualties, and threw in a variable for the energy expended when the _Enterprise _itself was caught in the coils.

_{w _x _d_}+ {_w (sub two)_ x _h (sub one)}_ = 333

He didn't think it would win any prizes for developing an accurate comparison, but something told Spock that he'd have a fair idea of when Lysander's forces would have expended the same amount of energy they'd taken from Federation warp-drive ships, for all these wayward endeavors. And how easy it was to throw that energy away, and how wasted all those lives had been.

Then, in what seemed like a silent salute, Lysander and Exmoor each raised heavy binoculars to their eyes to watch their warships that blasted out of sight. Men seated in front of them, in tidy white uniforms, recited telemetry in calm tones as muffled transmissions came through a speaker from the lead ships. Banks of red and blue and yellow lights glowed against their jumpsuits.

"Sir," Spock said, turning his attention back to the problem at hand, "is there a map showing the particular region of attack ahead?"

Lysander barely took the binoculars down from his eyes and waved his free hand toward a computer screen in the upper left of the vast, confusing console. As Spock had imagined, there was a triangle of lines highlighted, randomly seeming to connect three of the collapsed stars strewn across the Pocket. Finally, with the ships thoroughly out of sight, the commander and the old actor put down their binoculars and began looking over the shoulders of the control crew with folded arms.

"Commence firing," Lysander said flatly. From the great distance, there was nothing to see out the control tower windows. But on the instruments and screens below, pandemonium had clearly broken out.

"Sir: at what, precisely, are you firing?" The Vulcan could no longer restrain himself from asking.

"Suppressive fire against a possible enemy extrusion in the Pocket."

"Based on what data?"

"Our remote stations," Lysander said, appearing quite focused on the instrumentation spread out before them.

"Might I see a display of this information?"

"Korex," the commander murmured, to the operator before him. Mr. Korex glanced over his shoulder and then pressed a series of buttons, and a screen near Spock went from flashing various chopped phrases and acronyms to show (first) a page of two columns of numbers, and then a series of three star-maps with flashing blue lines and harsh yellow numbers. Then the two columns of numbers came back up, and Spock realized he was looking at before-and-after telemetry readouts, or so it seemed. And then the maps came up again, showing what appeared to be some kind of gravitational disturbance in the region in question.

"Please pardon the uninformed observation, sir," Spock ventured, "but the remote outposts appear to be triggering these disturbances, themselves."

"That would be impossible, sir," Lysander sighed, though his eyes appeared to be checking each lighted instrument on the big panel, just in case.

Then, suddenly, Mr. Spock took in a sudden gasp of air, and his lips remained parted for a few seconds. Both Exmoor and Lysander turned to regard the antiseptic alien with some concern.

"Commander, may I see a large schematic of the Pocket region, with approximate values assigned to gravitational and radiation outputs?" He had studied the region days ago, on the bridge of the _Enterprise_, but wanted to be sure before he spoke.

Lysander grunted in the affirmative, and the two operators worked as one, their arms overlapping now and then, to accommodate the request. One of the wide darkened windows became a viewscreen, showing the haphazard arrangement of collapsed stars, and then map-lines appeared along with more numbers, showing gravity-well distortions. And two of the black holes had flashing green "poles" through them, like exaggerated "null" signs, emerging at different orientations across space.

"And may I see the attack region, please." It came up a few seconds later, a long narrow triangle. Now Spock's mind was racing, and his fingertips seemed to be typing against his hips.

"Are you familiar, sir," the Vulcan said at last, as if he were looking across a great, fiery wasteland, from which there was no escape, "with the concept of black hole evaporation?"

At this, Lysander heaved a sigh that seemed at once relieved and derisive.

"That's just a myth," the commander said blandly, turning back to his instruments.

"Everything is a myth, sir, until it is proven."

Now, Exmoor was simultaneously disturbed and almost physically unbalanced. His hand reached out for support on one of the technicians' chair-backs, as though the weight of projected graphics and indecipherable numbers on the tower windows had become overwhelming. "What are you saying, Mr. Spock?"

"It would be impossible, under normal circumstances," the Vulcan admitted right away, "to alter the nature of a collapsed star, in any way, with our very minute resources."

There was a slight pause, when the only sounds were the buzzing of voices through speakers and the beeping of instruments.

"However," Spock said, seeming to emerge from some hallowed library after many hours of study, "by altering the smallest forces in a _chain_ of black holes, as you are doing now, through this seemingly arbitrary bombardment," he paused to take in a small breath, "using your technology in combination with that of your long-vanished enemy, you now run a substantial risk of triggering a chain reaction, which you may be unable to stop."

"That's absurd," Lysander snorted.

"It would be, if there were fewer collapsed stars in the region, or if they were of a more uniform size and spatial distribution. As it is, in fact, they range in size from the relatively tiny, to the very large indeed. And they are strewn across the 'Pocket' in such a way as to allow for a mass harmonic manipulation. Your bygone enemy would have known this, sir. And those two, there and there, appear to be emitting unusually high levels of gamma radiation, suggesting a shared flaw in their event horizons. If that condition worsens, the radiation will become overwhelming, and your attack on the gravitational tangents will set them spinning like deadly pulsars. Ultimately, they could render the entire region, including the Orion systems, uninhabitable for the next ten thousand years."

Now, the two control-board operators were listening intently, their hands poised above the controls as if over a hot stove.

"And all our contradictions," Exmoor was mumbling, looking almost space-sick, staring out over the blackness, "come rushing together."

"Both of you are excused from the tower," Lysander said abruptly.

"You have to stop the attack," Exmoor said, urgently.

"Out of the question!"

"Stop the attack!" Exmoor ordered, purely on the strength of his own celebrity.

"Take these men in the brig at once!"


	12. Chapter 12

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Twelve **

On the bridge of the _Enterprise_, all eyes were turned toward the bombardment of black holes and empty space by the alien warships, nearly two light weeks' distant. Still, a filter on the viewscreen showed a fairly clear, computer- enhanced view of slashing gravity beams, leaping out of the noses of great space-cruisers; and the occasional fusion blast that was partly blocked by a pop-up filter. Jim Kirk watched with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

"Any response to our hail, Uhura?"

"No sir. Mr. Scott is not answering."

"And no word from Spock."

"No sir." The chief of communications said with a kind of brisk certainty, stretching an arm across her console, as if checking the farthest signals.

Down on the planet, his crewmen were assembling emergency tent cities in the desert, below the floating towers. The moon was still being fed with plasma rays from orbiting batteries, and seemed to be holding together as expected.

"Keptin," came the Russian helmsman's voice, from the science station.

"What is it, Mr. Chekov," Kirk asked, not taking his eyes from the distant battle against great, invisible stars.

"Scans show something beneath the ocean beds, on the planet below."

Of course, this was completely unexpected as, seemingly, the whole planet was battening-down for some kind of deep freeze and hopelessly impoverished future. So, Jim Kirk leaned out of the command chair and climbed up to look over Chekov's shoulder.

"There, sir—we never checked, before the moon's collision. But here, and here. Under the ocean beds, some kind of propulsion system, sealed up, till now."

"Must have been used," Kirk pondered, "to break out of orbit, when they left their home system."

"I suppose," Chekov said, still looking startled, not to have found the hidden rockets before.

"They're full of… surprises," Kirk nodded, warily. Slowly, he turned to regard the rest of the stations around the bridge, and tugged at the hem of his usual gold tunic.

"Life sciences," he said, after a minute, walking around the front of the command deck, to the station at the "eleven o'clock" position in the sweeping ring of computer lights and screens.

"We're continuing to assemble tent cities, captain," Lt. Tracy nodded, though he looked like he'd been given an impossible assignment. He took his tense hand away from the left side of his face, and looked up at Kirk, beseechingly.

"What is it, Tracy?"

"You know, sir, we're not equipped to save them all," he answered quietly.

"I know," Kirk mumbled, "I know. Aren't there underground caves and… maybe there's a network of maintenance towers around those buried rocket sites." And then, he couldn't help but remember Allena's comment about seismic disruptions down there, when they'd first met. It seemed like a thousand years ago.

"I'll tag on to the Science Department computers and try to figure something out," Tracy nodded.

"That's fine." It came as a relief, almost, to walk back to the captain's seat and watch the strange bombardment of empty space, like a brutish version of fireworks on the fourth of July.

"Shuttle craft approaching, requesting access to shuttle bay, sir," Uhura announced, with some satisfaction, over his left shoulder.

"Bring her in. Open a channel, Lieutenant."

"Channel open, sir."

"Mr. Scott," Kirk said, appraisingly, as if he were trying to put the older man on the spot, "you came back just when things were getting interesting out there!"

"Rough weather for this little boat, captain," the chief engineer chuckled, through the intercom. He sounded as if he were happily declining one more shot of whiskey, or genially refusing to be baited by the boy-engineer-made-good. Through the speakers, in the background, you also could hear the usual computer "boops" and "beeps" to announce that the great curtain-like doors of the shuttle-bay were rumbling open below decks.

"Kirk out," the captain smiled, foiled again by the justifiably confident Scotsman.

"Captain," Sulu's voice came, carrying a warning.

"What is it?"

The navigator, seated just ahead and to Kirk's left, tried to focus the long-range sensors on his helm control, and the viewscreen shimmered a bit before focusing on one of the little, deep space-stations, like the one Mr. Scott and Mr. O'Neil had been tinkering with all day. The probe-like device, with its cannon pointed end, was glowing fiercely, and it seemed to be finding a new axis point, rotating this way and that, on the fringe of the great shelling exercise.

Kirk had to admire the fact that Sulu saw it at all, out there, in the midst of all those glorious explosions. Even the skin of the probe (or space station) lit up electrically, reflecting the fusion blasts.

"Diggin' their way to China, are they?" Scotty asked, after he stepped out of the turbolift behind the captain, to likewise watch the relentless barrage, burrowing deep into nowhere. The screen had just re-focused on the single outpost, but an occasional wash of scorching light still crashed across the screen, from the upper and lower left.

"It doesn't seem like the usual training exercise," Kirk said, glancing back toward Mr. Scott.

"And will ye look at that," Scotty smiled cynically at the object on the screen. "Now she wakes up, and does what she pleases." He was still shaking his head over a wasted day's effort, as he stepped over to the engineering station and relieved a young lieutenant.

"You know," Kirk said, "none of that was made by these people." In his mind, he was referring to the odd little probe, with its cannon tip: maneuvering slightly, this way and that, like a dart in the hand of a very careful thrower.

"Aye, and don't I know it. Could'a been made by elves and leprechauns for all the sense it makes inside."

There was a long pause while everyone simply watched, and double-checked their instruments.

"Shield status," Kirk wondered, aloud.

"Shields available at 100%, Keptin."

"Go to yellow alert."

"Aye, Captain," Uhura said, behind him, with an equal measure of calm deliberation. "All decks: go to yellow alert."

"What's it aiming at?" Kirk said at last, leaning forward.

Sulu slid his fingertips over one touch-pad, and the long-range scan backed out, and tilted along with the approximate direction of the object. Then, after some jiggling and juggling of more touch-pads, the navigator had brought up a nice image of the object, at the bottom right of the screen. And nothing but a deep expanse of stars (and the occasional fusion blast) stretched out beyond. One more adjustment, carefully, and Mr. Sulu appeared to be developing a headache from sheer concentration.

"Magnifying," he said, needlessly. The object slipped out to the lower right, and stars flew by, following an imaginary line from the cannon tip.

"Sensors show a black hole," Chekov explained, from the science station, though he sounded puzzled. "Werry unremarkable, Keptin."

Kirk just shook his head. Space was full of little diversions like this—though most of them didn't involve a huge, random military assault.

"They have the power," he calculated out loud, "to manipulate, and focus, and maybe even… amplify gravity. Or, their old enemy does… did…" He shook his head. "And gravity, in our universe, is a million, billion, billion, billion… _billion_ times weaker than electro-magnetism, and the 'weak force,' which governs radioactive decay, and the 'strong force,' which holds particles together." Jim Kirk was becoming oddly emphatic, as he walked himself all the way through introductory physics again. "All of which make up our present reality. But all it takes to cancel-out the gravitational force of an entire planet— is one small magnet on something as small as a coin."

Chekov touched a button on the helm, and the viewscreen picture washed away: from the deep regions of space, to show that odd, brightly-lit outpost again, that seemed to be at the center of their present concerns.

"There's also that old theory," Scotty tossed in, "that you could 'borrow' gravity from another universe. One where the forces are more in balance. Though it sounds insane, I grant ye."

"I know," Kirk said, very quietly. "But… why?"

"Why not borrow more electro-magnetism," Sulu wondered.

"Because," Kirk realized, with sudden clarity, "no one else in this galaxy has a gravity-based technology—or the means to fight it." It was a perfect solution for any battlefield stand-off, if it was as possible as it suddenly seemed.

"No one but the Mahlons," Scotty replied, having examined their machinery up close, himself. Kirk didn't know if he should scold the engineer for the ridiculous suggestion of the revival of that vanished civilization, or perhaps just share a wry little smile with him.

"As far as we know," Kirk finally said, crossing his legs, "this is all some sort of military exercise by the Chilions." But the image on the screen, of the strange space outpost, so quiet and yet glowing amidst all the explosions, still seemed foreign to the rest of the ships and to whatever strategy they thought they were following.

"They told me," Kirk said, remembering Babbington's words, "they used these outposts to 'pluck the strings' between black holes, to determine the activity of the Mahlons. Is it possible they were exaggerating? That Chilion merely collected data from these little stations whenever they turned themselves on, that they were really automatic? Or," and now he had to use Scotty's 'ghost' analogy, "that the Mahlons are somehow running them from another location?"

"I don't care what they say, I don't think the Chilions are running that outpost, Captain," was Scotty's flat statement, as he turned to regard the viewscreen again.

"Agreed," Kirk said.

"Keptin," Chekov said, with alarmed suspicion, "I think she may be preparing to fire."

"As long as she's not firing at us, Lieutenant," Kirk said. But what all of this was leading to was still a mystery.

"Captain," Scotty said, now leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, toward Kirk. "I know it dinna make sense, but… I can't help but feel like all this happened because we broke into the gizmo in the first place."

Kirk smiled at the chief engineer's capacity for guilt, over some utterly alien weapon, out in the middle of nowhere.

"But at least ye might say," Scotty continued, with a quiet urgency, "all that firepower came after the damned thing came to life, all of a sudden."

"Maybe, Scotty," Kirk said, still smiling. But it was clear that Scotty couldn't shake his own morbid feelings on the subject.

"Sensors show," Chekov said, at last, "a beam of—some kind—projecting out toward the targeted singularity, Keptin."

"Analysis?"

"It is almost a 'null space,' sir, coming out of the device," the helmsman said, looking in to a scanner hood up at the science station. "And if there's anything else, our own sensors are not equipped to recognize it, sir." Chekov's vowels had all the usual Russian accents.

"A 'null space,'" Kirk repeated, folding his arms over his chest in puzzlement. "To make space for what? Something from… outside the Universe?" He felt like an idiot for saying it, but there it was.

Chekov could only raise his shoulders in complete mystification. He and Kirk were both wishing the science officer, Mr. Spock, was back aboard. And all the while, the Chilion barrage continued, sending flashes of light across the field of view, like a brutal thunderstorm, reflecting on the bedroom ceiling at night on Earth.

"Readings on the singularity," Kirk said, at last. If they couldn't figure out what was happening with the alien contraption, maybe, at least, he could find out if it was doing anything to its apparent target.

"Ah!" Chekov said, as if he were suddenly a two-year old boy again, reaching out for something in the air above the science station, and trying to draw a parent's attention. Kirk looked up, and then hurried to Chekov's side. Both men, in their gold shirts, stood staring down into the blue light of the computer hood. The whites of Kirk's eyes, and even the hazel irises reflected the blue light, till they shone like cold springs: craggy limestone, stained bronze with minerals; and frigid blue water, seeming to pour out of the black depths.

"Well, now what?" It was the inevitable question, asked by Mr. Exmoor this time, as he sat with Spock in a sound-proofed jail cell in the military space station.

"We wait, sir. And they either follow my recommendation, or not."

"About destroying their own space outpost?" Exmoor sighed, where he sat, against one blank wall, and shook his head. "They won't do it."

"Indeed," Spock nodded, acknowledging a kind of futility in his approach, though he still hadn't figured out what set people against his reasoning so easily, and so powerfully. Logic should have had precisely the opposite effect, even on non-Vulcans.

"Have you ever thought of ingratiating yourself," Exmoor wondered, "or flattering people, before trying to tell them what to do?"

Both of Spock's dark eyebrows went up his forehead at this, as if pure rationality and a clear, life-saving warning for hundreds of millions of people were suddenly outrageous things that might have to be sugar-coated before any competent commanding officer could be forced to listen. If the Starfleet commander himself were capable of feeling offended right now…

"I'm not trying to offend you," Exmoor insisted suddenly, as if the Vulcan's look of surprise was all the indication the old actor required for looking straight into his mind.

Spock's eyebrows crept up once more: a single, impossible, millimeter higher.

"Oh, forget it," Exmoor sighed, rattling his hands over the edge from his knees, where his wrists were propped up, as he sat against the wall, on the floor.

"No, please continue," Spock said, realizing he might collect some valuable insight.

"Forget it. I shouldn't give advice to middle-aged men," Exmoor sighed, being well past his own middle-years, himself.

"Indeed?" Spock looked off to the little glass window in the thick metal door, and out into the cell-block corridor beyond. Occasionally, he could see the top of a guard's head, as he passed by. But finally, Exmoor just couldn't bear the silence any longer.

"All you younger guys want to hear is, 'you're right, you're absolutely right—how can anyone dispute the absolute perfection of your righty-right-rightness?'" The old actor shook his head and stared down at his designer slacks and sporty, hand-made shoes.

"I believe you are suggesting," the Vulcan said, slowly piecing it together, "that Vulcans may seem guilty of pride, to some people, in their single-minded devotion to logic."

Exmoor had to look twice at Spock, after that remark, as it seemed utterly devoid of any intentional irony.

"I suppose that _would_ be illogical," Exmoor sighed.

"Indeed."

A few minutes later, there was a little fluttering noise at the doorway, as if a key-card were being swiped through an electronic lock, and then a muffled "click" as the cell door was being opened. Out in the corridor stood the base commander, Mr. Lysander.

"I'm afraid there've been some rather unusual developments," he said, mildly, and ruefully. "Won't you gentlemen join me?" Even as he spoke the last words, though, he was already on the move and marching down the hall.

"May I enquire," Spock said, as deferentially as he could manage, "as to the nature of these developments?" Lysander and an adjutant were already waiting in an elevator capsule, as Spock and Exmoor hurried to catch up.

"Difficult to say. Seems the 'event horizons' around two of our singularities are, in fact, shrinking. Quite rapidly." Lysander straightened his back till his uniformed belly thrust forward like a rooster's chest.

Spock nodded, as it was in confirmation of his recent theory. Lysander seemed annoyed by this, looking away and emitting a sort of aggrieved little snort; and Exmoor nudged Spock in the ribs.

"Shocking," Spock said, on a sudden inspiration, as convincingly as possible. But when he glanced side-long at the actor for confirmation, Exmoor only rolled his eyes, as they zoomed upward through the ribcage to the main control tower.

"Are there any increased readings of gamma radiation, sir?" Now, as he asked it, Spock ducked his chin slightly and folded his hands together over his crotch. The only way he could show more submissiveness, he supposed, would be to sink down to a fetal position at the commander's feet.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. From what I understand—" Right then, the capsule door _whished _open and Lysander arrived on the panic-filled tower deck with thick glass walls on all sides. He continued his sentence as he stepped out: "—the 'event horizon' is the only thing holding over 99% of the gamma rays inside. Usually, by the time they finally struggle outward, to escape the extreme gravity well, they're just harmless, to any neighboring system, anyway."

"Yes sir, with an horizon of appropriate depth for its mass," Spock added, careful not to upstage the testy, or perhaps just worried, commander with a barrage of too much hard knowledge. Two senior Chilion officers hurried up to the commander with the latest telemetry and analysis on glass pads held out in their hands.

Meanwhile, Spock's eyes were going from one computer station to the next, all around, and Exmoor was peering at a projection on one window, of a color-enhanced view of one of the black holes in question. Or, more precisely, the projection of their event horizons: billowing like two bubbles under a child's breath, with waves rippling across its spherical, computer-enhanced surface. As the horizons seemed to shrink, polar tendrils flared outward with greater intensity, colored to shown the projection of deadly polar rays.

Spock began to feel like a dog being trained to wait silently, with a biscuit on its nose, as Lysander stood poring over one glass pad after another. Occasionally a subordinate officer would point to one figure or equation or paragraph here or there, and the commander would exhale gruffly, as if he'd either been presented with unsatisfactory reports, or perhaps as if he was putting on a show of understanding, when he didn't.

"All right, Mr. Spock," he said, at long last. "What do you make of all this?"

The Vulcan nodded deferentially, knowing he could be back in the brig if he appeared to be threatening Lysander again, with his dire warnings.

"It appears the Mahlon technology, which you adopted, has somehow reverted to its original programming, after many years. And it appears, sir, they may have found a means of converting a black hole into what our science calls a 'magnetar.' A most unexpected development," he added, to avoid sounding superior—though he'd been polishing his analysis for a good half an hour, already.

"Most unexpected, indeed," Lysander grumbled, trying to get rid of all the computerized glass pads at once, thrusting them upon the nearest of his lieutenants.

"Are there other examples of this going on within 'the Pocket'?" Spock asked.

"Yes," Lysander said, scratching his chin and pointing to a computer station a meter and a half away. When they approached, the nearest operator pushed back his chair and stood out of their way. "There, the fourth singularity in the chain: same interference from the outpost; the same erosion of the horizon."

Now, Spock almost whispered to the commander, not wishing to infuriate him with his next input.

"Would it be possible, sir, to disable the Mahlon devices?"

There was an unendurable, glowering silence as Lysander stewed in his own miserable fate. "No, I'm afraid not. They're impervious to our fusion bombs and, as you may know, our own gravity weaponry is of Mahlon design to begin with, so seems useless against the mother technology."

"Yes, of course," the Vulcan said quietly, as if the commander had just shared some very bad medical news in some overly public place. "And," Spock asked, as gently as he could, "am I correct in assuming your gravity weapons are not powerful enough to counteract the Mahlon devices, or perhaps to off-set any further manipulation of the collapsed stars, especially any changes in spin or rotation?"

"Of course not," Lysander hissed, his face growing red now, at having to state the obvious—that after all these years, the Mahlons appeared to have won, at last. And all the glory of Chilion had evaporated, in a hearts-beat.

"Then, sir," Spock ventured, wondering if he was about to be shoved back to the brig, "may I suggest the entire base be moved to some more shielded location?"

"That would take weeks, or even months!"

"Then I would respectfully suggest, sir, that the process begin at once." Spock's voice had become so faint as to be almost inaudible, even to the senior officer.

"Very well," Lysander blustered, trying to remain calm, though it seemed he was angry now at his own rising panic. "Prepare to move the installation," he said loudly, surveying the pallid complexions of his officers, all around. "Recall the fleet. We're going 'round to Pocket alpha."

There was a very short moment of stunned silence, and then the order was repeated into little microphones at each computer station. A new warning bell began to sound, as technicians and ship-handlers began to shut down the outer functions of the ribcage for transit.

Reflections of distant starlight stretched and twisted along each beam's length as the great black space station began to turn in the darkness, like a nearly invisible distortion against the edge of the galaxy. And a half-dozen ships that had been left floating inside the hollow interior began blasting attitudinal rockets here and there, to secure their moorings as they all began to flee as one. And all around, a myriad of secondary safety lights were going out all across the arched mooring beams, or ribs, till she resembled some dark plague ship, newly shamed and banished.


	13. Chapter 13

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Thirteen **

The _Enterprise _had moved to an orbit over Chilion that would keep her just below the horizon, on the far side of those artificial magnetars, to where the starship seemed to circle the hot moon. Chilion revolved beneath them: half in dust clouds; and half in desert. And the moon, over the northern hemisphere and off to starboard, had regained some altitude. But the craggy satellite still looked very much like a rock about to drop into the pool of dim light below. And along with that obvious obstacle, the starship had to stay clear of the invisible energy beams that kept the moon as warm as a miniature sun: maneuvering over it, then swinging behind, as the harvest energies fired from one distant exchange satellite, and then another. It was an awkward situation, as the moon and Chilion beyond it seemed to move one way on the viewscreen, then the other, sometimes seeming to change position as the _Enterprise _altered its orbit, again and again.

Mr. Hadley was at the helm and Lt. Rhada, the sphinx-like brunette, was next to him at the navigator's station, with Lieutenant Sulu in the captain's chair for the overnight shift. None of them looked at ease, dodging the moon, and trying to stay clear of the magnetars. Lt. Palmer, the statuesque blond, was at the communications console, and Mr. Tracy was at engineering. And off to Sulu's right, eternally vexed, Mr. Chekov had stayed on at the science station to watch the black holes, two of them now nearly stripped of their horizons.

"_Bozhemoi_,_" _Chekov muttered, rubbing his eyes before looking back into the hooded science readout again. Sulu couldn't help but smile, behind him in the center seat.

"What's that? Did you say 'all clear'," Mr. Chekov?" the lead-navigator teased

The Russian only shook his head now, and the blue light from the internal workings of the computer console shuttled back and forth across his weary eyes.

"Sensors show additional artificial input into singularities," Chekov said wearily, as if he hadn't heard Sulu's remark.

"On screen please," Sulu said, the smile vanishing from his face, as he seated himself more upright in the captain's chair. For no conscious reason, his index finger and thumb reached out for the ship-wide address button on the armrest, as if he were about to alert his fellow crewmen.

"From the same sources?" he asked, as the bridge crew watched a trembling, computer-enhanced line of energy hitting one of the singularities.

"Negative, from two more devices," Chekov said, and rattled off the coordinates. The view on the big screen wavered and dissolved, and now a map came up showing the two black holes, and four rays, divided between the pair of singularities, each ray coming from a different outpost, and each Mahlon outpost, widely separated from the others.

"To what effect," Sulu wondered, trying to see what might be happening now, to the black holes.

Chekov heaved a great sigh, and shook his head again. "It appears the first two beams are damping-down the horizons, and the other two, I dunno!"

"Is it changing the gamma ray output?"

"Negative," Chekov said, with a kind of empty weariness.

"Is it altering the mass?" Sulu asked, patiently walking through the logical alternatives, as unlikely as they seemed, of course.

"Negative." Now, Chekov seemed to be waking up a bit, drawn out by the playful, "twenty questions" nature of Sulu's calm interrogation. Then Sulu was taken up by a sudden thought:

"Computer."

The flat, metallic-sounding voice of the ship's brain replied almost at once:

"_Working_."

"Analyze data from last twenty-four hours, regarding the manipulation of the two singularities. Is there an equation for altering the spin or axis of a black hole?"

"_Working. Spin or axis thought experiments date back to Earth year 1980 and possibly before. Regarding analysis of present conditions, past equations do not apply."_

"Why not?" Sulu began to look uneasy, and folded his hands in his lap.

"_No experimental analog for particular extra-spatial gravity shunts, and no rules for differently balanced realities exist from which to draw equations. Parameters must be defined to determine relative balances." _

Well, _that's _a big help, Sulu thought, heaving a sigh. He watched the graphic map on the screen, and the computer-enhanced rays that appeared to be piercing into the two singularities beyond the planet, and the deadly rays that verifiably poured out of their north and south poles, more or less in parallel with the apparent axes of the other holes in the Pocket.

As navigator, of course, Sulu dodged the _Enterprise _around gravity hazards all the time, and some of them were extremely dynamic or unstable. And he tried to imagine how gravity might seep from one set of physical properties, or universes, to another. But, as always, it was like trying to imagine a polar bear in a heavy snow storm. By the time you caught sight of it, it would probably be too late.

So, he thought he knew what would happen next. But until it did, he didn't want to drag the captain back up top for what may have just been a pointless interruption in his down-time. Even then, they'd already taken every reasonable precaution and, it seemed, they were powerless to do anything more. He sank back into the blockish, throne-like chair, wondering what a dead civilization might do for an encore.

It wouldn't have mattered, if Lt. Sulu had alerted the captain, because the captain was still up and watching the same computer-generated images in his quarters . There was a knock at the cabin door and, when it opened, Dr. McCoy was standing there.

"You're looking very monastic," McCoy joked, as Kirk sat at the desk in the tidy little sitting area.

"Not by choice," Kirk said, looking down again, at the screen in front of him.

"Well," the chief medical officer sighed, taking the chair across the table, "with you spending all your nights alone in your cabin, it seems like Starfleet's worries are over!"

"I'm _not_ alone," Kirk grumbled, though it seemed he wished he was.

"That's a hell of a thing," McCoy said, peering around at the screen view of the two singularities, and the simulation of the invisible "rays" that were increasingly pouring out of them both.

"Not from our parameters," Kirk said, glad to change the subject.

"Well, they have to be coming from _somewhere_," the doctor protested.

"They are," Kirk nodded. "From Mahlon technology. But they're pushing forces in, we think, from some other… universe."

"Well that's just ridiculous," McCoy said, shaking his head, and looking away, toward something he could believe in: a small tropical plant in a corner, a few paintings, a pair of black boots just visible at the foot of Kirk's bunk, around a room-divider. "It's like some old Indian curse, on the pilgrims or the pioneers!"

"Maybe. But it's making the rest of us look even more ridiculous, trying to figure it out." There was a long pause.

"So, you and the princess?"

"Making me look ridiculous, too."

"And so you're hiding out in your lair," McCoy nodded.

"Precisely," Kirk muttered, pretending to devote his full attention to the little screen.

"You're looking at those two singularities like they were some precious part of your body," McCoy said, unable to resist a smile.

"You know, I really don't think about sex all the time," Kirk fumed.

"I know. You have to… wait, I'm trying to think of something that would stop you from thinking about sex." McCoy pursed his lips.

At this Kirk finally seemed to smile, just by an angstrom, on one side of his mouth. Both men sat watching the little screen now.

"If I can't find a way out of this mess," the captain sighed, "those two might as well be my…"

"Orions!"

"Well, I was going to say my discharge papers, but—"

"No, I mean, if something is unleashed on _this _side of the Pocket, won't it also affect life on the other side? On the Orion side?" The conversation of a moment ago was utterly forgotten, as McCoy's eyes blazed with sudden alarm.

"We don't know what's going to happen, Doctor," Kirk said, dismissively, as if perhaps the Mahlon beams might not even be intended to wreak havoc on the Chilions, specifically, as some kind of 'vengeance from beyond.'

"But if it does," McCoy said quietly, but undeterred, "it goes from being a question of three hundred million lives, to something like thirty _billion_."

Now Jim Kirk began working his jaw back and forth, as if he'd developed a sudden headache.

"Bones, if you came in here to cheer me up…" He reached over to his left, and touched the oval button next to the intercom grill on the room-divider. "Bridge."

"Palmer here, Captain," the communications officer replied, through the little speaker.

"Message to Starfleet Command: Advise Orion of possible gamma ray weapon, this sector. Will attempt to… disarm. Kirk out." Reluctantly, his eyes met McCoy's, and the dark look he shared with the doctor spoke volumes about his pessimism on the subject. "And advise the Chilion high counsel that all their people should be moved underground at once."

After another moment, summoning up the usual grim resolve, he touched the little oval button again.

"Mr. Sulu."

"Yes, sir."

"Plot a course for those Mahlon devices, get us within phaser range. Best possible speed, when ready."

"Aye, sir." And less than ten seconds later they were breaking out of orbit and the warp drive engines came booming to life: from the lowest octaves, up to a mid-range roar across the length of the _Enterprise_.

"Jim," McCoy said, as both men got up, "if Scotty couldn't figure those things out yesterday, what makes you think—"

"We're not trying to 'figure them out' anymore, Doctor," Kirk snarled, as they stepped into the usual foot-traffic in the long, curving corridor of deck five. A sort of natural path opened up around them, as McCoy tried to keep up on the way to the turbolift.

By the time the two senior officers had emerged onto the bridge, Jim Kirk had regained his temper, a bit, knowing that all starship captains love to roar like a lion, now and then—and that the Mahlon devices would probably not simply burn up the moment they were hit by phasers. He slipped into the center seat as Sulu was stepping forward to relieve Lt. Rhada at the helm.

"ETA, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, tugging his tunic down around his waist as he settled into his chair.

"Three minutes at warp-factor three, Captain."

"Phasers and photon torpedoes at the ready, Mr. Hadley," Kirk said, even before Sulu had finished answering.

"Aye, sir."

"Analysis, Mr. Chekov?"

"The ewent horizons of two of the collapsed stars have virtually vanished, sir," the lieutenant said, though it came out more like "veertually wanished," as was often the case, under stress. "As you know, the size of each horizon is a function of the mass of the black hole itself. And this leads me to believe the devices are somehow changing the effective mass of the singularities inside, or shifting the outer horizons away, into different parameters in a way we do not understand, borrowing some low-gravity parameter, and allowing for the escape of deadly levels of gamma radiation." Now, Chekov sat down at the science console, and just stared at the blinking computer lights for a second. "Or," he said, with a curious expression on his face, "perhaps the Mahlon devices could even be expanding the horizons, themselves—essentially out to universal-maximum, by opening a door to another set of parameters inside, or on the edge, of each hole. This could also explain the increasing polar wobbling."

"Then why aren't we being sucked in," Kirk wondered. Still, he had to smile at the sheer audacity of the idea: an event horizon as large as the universe. It reminded him of the old concept that that everything he knew might only be the remnants of reality, already racing down the drain inside some inescapable black hole, unbeknownst to all concerned. Then he remembered Allena's philosophical remark, about fleeing to religion as an escape from the irrationality of modern science. And in spite of his impatient remarks before they parted, he missed her terribly all over again. What must this all mean to her, and mean to her world?

"It may be," Chekov said, interrupting Kirk's reverie, "that the devices are triggering the expansion of the horizons, in such a way that they become less and less powerful, over distance. In any case, the gamma energy from natural evaporation is now free to lash out in all directions, unencumbered by the horizons themselves."

During all of this, next to the captain, McCoy looked like he was developing a headache.

"This is all my fault," the doctor grumbled. "I should never have brought that derma-scanner up here to begin with."

"Lesson learned, Bones," Kirk smiled, in spite of himself.

"Captain," Sulu called out.

"On screen."

"It's a chain reaction. They're beginning to tumble, sir," the navigator warned, touching a few lighted pads on the wide helm control board. The picture of one of the Mahlon devices dissolved away to show a graphic representation of one of the targeted black holes (which, in reality, was quite invisible), and the computer-enhanced view of gamma rays poured out of its north and south poles: wobbling beams of light, enhanced to a bright green, going around in wider and wider circles like the a child's spinning top, about to topple.

"Go to red alert," Kirk said, calmly. The red-lit panels flared on and off, to fore and aft on the bridge. About a minute later, the accompanying klaxon silenced itself; though the red lights kept flashing.

"We may be too late," the captain said, to no one in particular.

"Drop to sub-light," he added, a few moments later. "Fire phasers when ready."

Now, Sulu switched the main viewscreen back to the nearest Mahlon device, and the sound of the warp drive hummed down a musical scale like a monstrous dynamo, till it faded away. The blue fire of the _Enterprise_' phasers leapt out from beneath the main saucer section for several seconds, with no visible effect on the alien space outpost.

"Fire again."

Another blazing stream of nearly white light shot out into the depths but, on the screen, the Mahlon device seemed untouched behind the blast wave that crashed against its surface.

Kirk tilted his head in grudging admiration. "Fire photon torpedoes when ready."

"Fire photon torpedoes," Hadley confirmed, at Sulu's side. Two pair of green blobs shot out, in the same direction as the phasers. With each pair of blobs, there came a sound like the cables of an immense suspension bridge being double-struck by a hammer of the gods, and echoing through the ship. But the blobs of light flew off into the darkness with equally little effect.

Well, Kirk thought, at least they're not firing back.

The next thing he knew, he was picking himself up off the deck, as McCoy rolled off the captain's stomach. He thought he remembered a sound like a huge ocean wave crashing down on him, but couldn't be sure.

"Gamma ray, Keptin," Chekov said, pulling himself up, and shaking his head, before peering down into the science station's hooded readouts.

"Shields holding," Palmer announced, over Kirk's shoulder, as he climbed into his seat again. "No injuries to report."

"Well," McCoy said, shaking off the effects of the gamma blast, "I'd better get down to sickbay anyway." He loped up into the turbolift and the red doors snapped shut behind him.

Another eerily deafening blow struck the _Enterprise_, too loud to register on the human ear, and doubtless knocked Dr. McCoy across the little turbolift capsule as he went gliding below decks.

"Plot a course around those rays, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, at the risk of stating the obvious.

"Sorry, Captain," the navigator said, seeming incapable of annoyance. "Those last few caught me by surprise."

"Understood," Kirk said. "Viewscreen minus 100," he added.

The view ahead widened-out until both computer-enhanced black holes had come into view, and their sickly green polar rays whipped around in every direction, bending hypnotically when they flashed too close to the other singularities in the Pocket. The overall impression was of a pair of invisible, dancing swordsmen, with impossibly long scimitars thrashing around from swinging arms. As the _Enterprise _wove a path around the reckless rays, she managed to stay within phaser range of the Mahlon operations.

"This is pointless," Kirk sighed, finally. "Get us back to Chilion, best speed."

"Aye, sir," the navigator nodded, sighing with relief. "It may be impulse-power all the way, for tighter control."

A moment later, they changed heading and the view of the wild, knuckleball-singularities and their chaotic rays was swept behind them. Still, the stars swam around, this way and that, as the _Enterprise_ skirted the careening beams, flaring out in every direction.

"Aft-view," Kirk said, wanting to at least try to understand what Sulu was attempting. But as soon as the stars ahead wavered and dissolved, he wished he hadn't. The sickening green beams danced and flashed out of the tiny black holes, and the ship rose or tilted or fell and bobbed as they ran like fugitives from flashlights.

On a normal flight across any given sector, Sulu might execute a few of these wild maneuvers, but here it was a constant thing, as the starship hurried and then slowed, and dove and seemingly ricocheted from one empty space between the computer-enhanced green beams, to the next little hollow of momentary stillness in space. Kirk rose from his seat, trying not to balance himself by what he saw on the screen (for he'd fall down if he did), and lightly leaned over Sulu's shoulder.

"Do you want another navigator to help back you up?"

"I'm fine, sir," Sulu said.

"I just want to have one up here, on the side-lines, just in case," Kirk said quietly.

"Mmm," Sulu said, after a moment, as if he was only vaguely aware. His fingers were going back and forth over the navigation console, as if he were playing a Bach concerto.

"Lieutenant Rhada, return to the bridge," Kirk said, as nonchalantly as possible, into the intercom on the armrest of his seat. He pulled himself into the chair again, not wanting to land on the floor when one of those gamma rays swatted them again, worse than a prize-fighter's left hook. And all he could do now was try not to grimace and groan as his ship rolled through what seemed like the tendrils of a very angry pair of squids.

A minute later, the elegant, business-like Lt. Rhada re-emerged on the bridge. She froze dead in her tracks, watching the stars go flying one direction, and then another, and another as one or two green beams flashed around them menacingly, as if angry giants were spraying bug-killer around a darkened room, with both hands. And the _Enterprise _was the bug.

Finally, she took a seat off to the side at the unmanned environmental station, though it was just to the left of the main viewscreen, and Rhada had to steel herself to avoid distracting Sulu during all of this.

Jim Kirk wondered about communicating with the Mahlons, but that seemed hopeless on the face of it, after all these years. What would he say? And wouldn't he just be talking to a handful of inscrutable robot ships, and nothing more, at this point?

Then, another green beam shot from behind and, as if it were nothing at all, it somehow stayed beneath them, even though every star in the sky spun around that gamma ray tendril in the black sky, even to the farthest reaches of space. Was Sulu showing off, riding the _Enterprise _around in a spiral course along the polar flare, now that there was another navigator waiting to take over? His expression gave nothing away, even as Mr. Hadley turned to stare at him in amazement, after this audacious maneuver.

"I think I may have called you up here by mistake, Miss Rhada," the captain said, hoping to sound perfectly innocent, in the face of some kind of invisible contest.

"I understand, sir," she said, getting up to go. But before she had fully smoothed-out her gold mini-skirt, she seemed to give a little head-bow to Mr. Sulu, who had adopted a poker-faced expression, and whose eyes remained entirely fixed on the screen and helm controls. And then Rhada marched smartly across the bridge and was gone in the lift. But she was able to laugh about it by the time she got to the crew lounge and, before long, everyone had heard how Mr. Sulu had drawn a "candy cane" line around the arcing, deadly beam, to show it who was boss.

The great, lumbering ribcage had not fared so well as the _Enterprise_. They were operating on back-up computers now, after two deadly strikes had pounded the black, flaring moors that arched overhead. And though communications had become nearly impossible, Spock could tell the flotilla of Chilion warships had been hurt badly by the rays' gyrations.

They had also lost their window projections, along with the main computers in the control tower, and nearly everyone from Lysander on down wore heavy dark goggles to watch the chaos out there in the dark: two new magnetars, flying head over tail through space, creating four flashing beams of random, invisible destruction.

"These windows appear to be quite sturdy," the Vulcan said, next to Lysander, contemplating the next whipping ray from one of the Mahlon magnetars.

"Yes," the commander said, watching the gamma rays through his filtered head-gear. "Carved from the hearts of our old moons, after the bauxite crystallizes. Turns to sapphire in the long heating process. Too precious to throw away, really."

"Just so," Spock agreed.

"I dare say we're going to need quite a few more moons around Chilion in the very near future," Lysander said, as casually as if he were predicting rain showers by morning. But he seemed to be mapping out a strategy to survive something much worse, and a solution that involved some sort of loose barrier of great satellites to shield them, and keep their atmosphere from blowing-off like the flame from a candle.

"Eminently logical," Spock was quick to agree, now fully aware of the commander's sensitivity to dominance.

"Trouble is, it takes a good year or so just to haul one into orbit," he mumbled, conversationally.

"Of course, you could do it all on your own," Spock said. "But I'm quite sure the Federation of Planets would be eager to help in any way."

"Yes," Lysander said, almost suspiciously. "You know, you don't have to be so bloody obsequious, all the time," he added.

"Then I misunderstood," the Vulcan shrugged.

"Quite all right," the Chilion general sighed, as if some awkward braces had finally been removed from their relationship.

Then, unexpectedly, Spock felt a little pinch on his forearm. It was Exmoor, standing silently through all of this. When the science officer turned toward him, the old actor seemed to shake his head in a very small warning gesture, through his own pair of glassy dark goggles. Perhaps Lysander wasn't as congenial as he, himself, seemed to think.

It gave Spock a sense of cool nostalgia, though: remembering, as a child, his father's extreme remoteness, which always surprised his human half, the human child within him; and then being equally surprised, perhaps in his Vulcan half, when Sarak would seem to "beam" feelings of reassurance into his own mind, in an unexpected gesture, or even an admiring, fatherly nod.

"May I ask a question about the royal counsel of advisors?" Spock ventured. It seemed to him to be the central problem, at least until this double-barreled Mahlon contrivance had blossomed across the skies.

"Oh, good gods of power! Those imbeciles?" Lysander was suddenly furious again, arms quaking in rage, just that fast. If Spock could laugh, he would have, just then.

"Precisely," the Vulcan said, as if they were chatting about the weather again.

Lysander seemed to be going through some convulsion that started writhing in his neck, and went down into his shoulders, and crept downward to raise his belly in an agonized sigh, and then finally his boots seemed to begin kicking around, against the deck in the shadows.

"What have they done now?" he demanded, quietly, recovering himself.

"We wanted to offer them technology to ensure their survival, but felt we simply could not trust them."

"You're damned right you can't trust them," Lysander shouted again, and the sapphire windows could have shaken in their frames, if they could. Nobody in the control room dared to move.

"Things might proceed to a satisfactory conclusion, much more quickly, if…"

"If they were 'out of the picture,'" Lysander growled, finishing the dangling idea.

"Battle fleet preparing to enter the station, Commander," one of the technicians announced. A faraway swarm of lights had appeared in the distance, from the deep shadows.

"Bring them in, medics at the ready," Lysander said, plain and clear.

After a few minutes, the first ships in the armada began floating in: fearsome rounded blocks and tiny pointed scout ships; long slender bombers and strange rigs that seemed more like old-world masts and grappling hooks and rudders than actual ships. A new siren called through the control tower, and red flashing lights beckoned wounded ships and crews to different portals along the great cage of gantries.

"Gentlemen, would you care to join me down below?" And the commander, still serene and almost musical in his tone, marched back to the elevator with Spock and Exmoor in tow. As they passed the last counter-top among the bleating, off-line computers, each man laid his heavy goggles down, before disappearing into the lift.

"Might cheer the men up," Lysander said quietly, as they landed a few dozen floors below the control tower overlook, "seeing the great Mr. Exmoor. Don't be alarmed by the burns, if you can help it," he added, as the stepped out into a frantic whirlwind of triage and surgery on the med deck.

Spock turned to glance at Exmoor, and noticed that all the color had drained out of the actor's face. And they hadn't even set eyes on a single wounded space cadet. Lysander gently wound his way through the nurses and doctors and medics and gurneys in the bright, noisy expanse around them. Whenever he could, he put a fatherly hand on a young man or woman's shoulder, and whispered a few words along the side of their heads, seeming to make a point of a kind of pantomime nuzzling with each victim of the Mahlon rays.

Meantime, the reaction of the wounded to the sight of the old actor was startling, even to the hardened Vulcan. Half the cadets and officers literally tried to get up off their gurneys, or even up off the floors, though they were swaddled in sheets and blankets, as the feelie "war hero" knelt over them. Spock stayed in the background, but he might as well have been invisible for all the attention that Exmoor was getting. Finally one of the doctors had to come and ask the great celebrity to withdraw, until the men and women had been sorted out by degree of injury and given their first treatments.

Spock gradually made his way to tag along with the commander, as he went up one informal aisle of the wounded, and then down the next. The old general showed no sign of weariness or shock, no matter how badly his troops were scorched, even as they tried to steel themselves in their pain.

"If only," Spock thought, "one could merge these two men's personalities."


	14. Chapter 14

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Fourteen **

The _Enterprise'_ landing party beamed down inside one of the underground rocket silos beneath the surface of Chilion: half-way down amidst the railings and pipes, to where the gleaming tanks of old-fashioned propellant seemed to have no top or bottom that they could see, craning their necks up and down from the edge of one of the grated decks, and drifting trails of white steam spread up and out of sight.

"I just hope we're not under one of those oceans," McCoy mused, looking up into the great heights, where everything became a tangle of confusion overhead. At his side, Nurse Chapel smiled, and began circling the great vertical engine, looking into the adjacent tunnels.

"We'd be safer if we _were_ under that much water, Doctor," Scotty said, warning about the gamma rays, and, separately, trying to assess the power of one of these tremendous old rockets to nudge a planet out of solar orbit, and off to where their owners' wished.

Behind them, Lt. Carstairs had her tricorder whirring, showing more interest in the layers of strata around the heavy metallic framework, buried into the rock with great rubber-looking pads. And Jim Kirk was searching for Allena.

It sounded like a kindergarten playground as he approached one of the tunnels, and found her in a swarm of children: every one of them seeming to talk and shout and point and jump all at once, as she knelt in the midst of them. Her smile faded to a sort of weary tenderness when she looked up and saw him, ten meters away, in the open blast doors. Were these all the children they would never have? Her sudden, tired expression seemed to suggest they were just tiny hallucinations that crowded around her, in her dreams.

But one of the little boys had unexpectedly grabbed her fingers as she stood up, and once again she was laughing and smiling and trying to extricate herself from the 1/3rd scale mob. Gamely, she swept the boy up in her arms and slowly made her way to greet the captain.

"I'm sorry, it's not very much like a floating palace," she said, with an elegant little laugh.

"It's much better," Kirk exclaimed, comically, gesturing at the tunnel behind him. "You've got rockets and tubes and wires and… well, highly explosive chemicals!"

"Ah, now I see what it takes to hang on to the great Captain Kirk," she smiled, telling the secret to the little boy in her arms: "Great, forgotten power, buried far beneath the surface, that only he can bring to life." She gently set him down again and letting him go. Only the grown-up meanings of the words sounded bitter.

He noticed she was wearing a kind of black and white, almost zebra-like print skirt and blouse, and wondered if it were some kind of ceremonial design, being so like what Mr. Babbington had worn in the cathedral, at least in terms of the stripes.

"Have you just come from church?" he wondered.

"As a matter of fact, I have. Well, chapel, really. I'd never wear this to the grand cathedral!" She thought for a second, rubbed her neck as if chafing at the responsibilities, and said, "we'll have to find a cavern big enough for regular service next week."

_If there _is _a next week, _Kirk thought, and then immediately regretted it. It seemed to him that all their power, on Chilion, was in a big, showy way: all designed to impress and marshal forces and frighten off a long-gone enemy. They'd do well, he told himself, to think a little bit more about the power beneath the surface. But you can't just throw that in someone's face.

"You haven't heard anything from your military men, have you?" Kirk asked.

"Well, there's been a terrible word out of our central command, that we suffered many burn-wounds. Of course, they're all being treated now, after getting farther from those rays. It's ghastly, isn't it?" she added, very quietly.

"I haven't heard from my first officer, and I think he was off in that general direction… with Mr. Exmoor."

"Oh, well, if he's with old Exmoor, he's sure to be having a marvelous time. The boys and girls in the Patrol are all mad about him," she smiled, though she still looked nervous. Once again, she seemed to be dealing on a very superficial level but, this time, even she appeared to be aware of it. There was an awkward pause.

"Would you like me to see about contacting your officer?" She suddenly seemed surprised that she had to ask, herself. But from the brooding, worried look Jim Kirk was giving-off, she supposed she had no choice but to ask outright.

"Yes."

"You could have asked, you know," she said, shaking her head. "I suppose you men all think you should be left to your own adventures, and left to your own pain and suffering, too," she said blithely, walking over to an armed guard, discretely standing near the blast doors. "Does life seem more poetic to you, that way?" she wondered, turning back to Kirk for a moment, and furrowing her brow like a man would.

She explained the situation to the guard, he nodded gravely, and then hurried out into the gantry tower, boots clanging all the way. A minute later, another guard appeared at the doors to take his place, gradually settling back against the rocky wall, like a chameleon blending into the trees.

Now they walked deeper into the tunnel, leaving the children behind. At last, their fingers closed together and, like a pair of dancers, their pace slowed almost to a stop when they were alone in the twisting, rocky trace.

The light was not quite shadowy, and not quite plain, but reflected the umbers and rusty crags around them. His face, and hers, seemed impossibly gold and youthful in that moment, surrounded by the ancient rock.

"I suppose I should thank the Mahlons," she whispered, "for keeping you here this long."

"They can't have been all-bad, can they?" Kirk attempted a smile, though it had become all too serious to him.

"Oh, don't ask me," Allena said, looking down, somehow embarrassed. "To me, they're just a parody, now, of an adventure. Of a dream in someone's head. Long ago." She glanced fully away, down the twisting tunnel's length.

He chuckled almost sadly at that, or at the way the wild call of war reverberates through generations in strange and unexpected ways. When she seemed so caught up in how her hair was arranged, or her gowns were selected, or her lips were...

"What's the matter," she asked, after a minute or so.

"Nothing," he said, gently inhaling her words before he whispered back.

"You keep looking that way," she said, unwilling to let him go, but growing more and more curious.

"I don't know. I just keep expecting Dr. McCoy to come bursting in on us."

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"Never better," he smiled, kissing his way up her cheek, till she tilted her chin up, to keep from blinking away his lips. Her slender neck had stretched like a swan's.

"You seem perfectly healthy," she said, looking surprised at his affection, and taking a quick physical inventory. "Almost _too _healthy, if you ask me!"

Then, as if he were an actor rushing on stage a moment too late, one of the royal guards hurried down the twisting path. Kirk and Allena extricated themselves from one another's arms.

"Your royal highness," the guard said, bowing his head, barely able to look up.

"Yes?"

"The captain's first officer is unharmed, though there were many injuries from the Mahlon rays. General Lysander sends his regards."

"Oh. Please inform the general we long for the safe return of all our brave men and women," she said, as if clumsily remembering the proper words, her fingers working at her waist, as if counting up the right amount of ransom to manage this latest crisis. "Thank you, that's all," she added, offering a grateful look, and the guard hurried away again. But, of course, the mood was broken now.

"Burns are the worst," Kirk mused, knowing what must have become of the battleship crews.

"There are some things about being a figurehead," Allena said, very quietly, "that I'd been taking for granted, till now."

"Sort of a shame that vengeance had to skip a generation," Kirk agreed, as they walked farther down the rough, underground tunnel.

"Oh, I don't know. It's probably for the best," she said, her voice echoing slightly. "It would have driven my father mad, having to face this now. Malcolm, my brother, would have gone absolutely wild. Gods only know what Uncle Brax will have to say about it."

"I'm guessing," Kirk said, holding her hand now, "that if he and the counsel can find a way to change gamma ray power into political power, they'll be just fine." And, in spite of herself, Allena had to smile at that.

"I suppose they'll need you and your ship more than ever, now," she said, as they walked along, on the polished stone floor, under the bright little bulbs in the rocks overhead.

"And you?" Kirk said, once again feeling as if he were saying goodbye, already. Or was it just his way of stealing another kiss? Perhaps if he just kept saying "goodbye" every few days, they'd stay in a permanent, romantic sort of "suspended animation."

His communicator _bleeped_, and he pulled it off his belt.

"Kirk here," he said, after flipping his wrist and letting the gold mesh cover pop up.

"Captain," came Uhura's voice from the _Enterprise_, "we're getting signals from Starfleet. The Orions are very… upset, I suppose, is the word. About the interference from those magnetars."

"I don't blame them," he commiserated, though he couldn't help sounding ironic.

"They're talking about mounting a fleet to put down a hostile attack," she added, by way of clarification.

"…I see," Kirk lied. "Tell… Starfleet to keep them at bay for as long as possible. Kirk out." He tried not to roll his eyes at the Orions' ability to turn everything into a conspiracy, and tucked the communicator back under his tunic.

"We've sent out scouts, into Orion," Allena said, folding her slender arms. "They have those very fast ships, too," looking a bit spooked.

"Yes," Kirk said, knowing she was talking about warp drive. Privately, he wondered if any other Orion vessels had already been hijacked and finally thrown away in the maelstrom, like the _Amphora_, with all aboard. For Chilion's sake, he hoped not. "Well," he added, "if it's any consolation, our best navigator barely got us through the gamma rays himself. And we know what's become of your own people, when they got too close. So, if they want to be safe, the Orions would have to go the long-way around that… cosmic threshing machine… to get here, and that would take…" days, he realized, though he was thinking at first he still had a week or so, depending on the wobbling effect.

"That would take how long?" Allena asked, polite but insistent.

"Well, let's… hope it doesn't come to that," he said, managing to smile. "That's what we have diplomats for, isn't it? Making time stand still?" There was a little silent, pensive moment as even the curving rocks seemed to lean in to listen.

"Then perhaps I shall have to use all of my diplomatic efforts on you," she whispered, taking his hand again, with a great show of confidence.

"_All_ your diplomatic efforts? I may never leave!"

"Well, I suppose being a young woman must have some advantages. And being surrounded, all my life, by head-strong men: my father, my brother, the counsel, you can't imagine! It gave diplomacy a whole new meaning. I had to learn to cry for all the wrong reasons," she said, as if she suddenly wondered, without rancor, how she got through it all. "And to be perfectly pleasant when I'd much rather have wailed like a baby." Her fingertips tapped against the pitted, rocky wall here and there, as they walked: as if it were a series of red hot little volcanoes; or as if she were touching hidden buttons to reveal a secret passageway.

They walked down through the silent tunnels, far beneath the surface of the planet, bittersweet at first, knowing that: of course, he'd have to leave eventually; and that every moment he stayed would make that last day even worse. Maybe (Kirk thought) they could leave one another after another great fight, and then they'd remember each other as bold and brave and full of conviction, and draw some kind of strength from that, years later.

"My father brought me down here once—I mean, with a whole entourage of people, of course. It seemed much bigger, back then."

"Why would you bring a little girl down here," he asked.

"Well, it was sort of the promise of tomorrow," she said, trying to remember. "They'd drained and cleaned all the rockets, around the world, and had some sort of plan to—what's the word? Weaponize them?"

"Good grief," Kirk laughed at the thought.

"Well, they never went through with it. But it all sounded spectacular, as a sort of last-ditch effort. Can you imagine? The Mahlons would come swooping down on us in their ships, and some terrible flames would come roaring straight up, out of the great blue oceans? It would certainly be enough to scare me off! There'd be great circles of steam, from the oceans, and golden flames, and—"

"You certainly… put a lot of style and romance into everything," the captain said, wracking his brains for something complimentary to say.

"Well, I'd say the Mahlons have taken the prize for that, now," she had to admit, more downcast: thinking of the twin magnetars blazing. "If they were still around."

"It probably shouldn't be so glamorous," Kirk nodded.

"No, you're right. It's amazing what you can do," she said, sounding perfectly innocent, by nature or witty calculation (for it was impossible to tell which), "just by converting mass into energy. Just push a button and 'poof!' ten million people could just disappear in a bubble of light." She seemed faintly dazzled by the prospect.

"_Touché_," he mumbled.

"Well, you're right," she hastened to add, "we shouldn't raise it to an art form, or a religion, either. But, when you're in some intractable conflict, all the time, with the Mahlons or whomever, it gets quite, well…"

"Baroque?"

"I don't know what that means," she laughed.

"Highly embellished or fanciful," he said, trying to remember, "as in architecture or art."

"Or like the way you feel about me," she said, helpfully, but with the supreme confidence of youth.

Now he could only draw her forward, against him, as he leaned against the rough wall, and kiss her cheek and ear and neck as tenderly as a man who knows it's all just temporary and, in a way that's too terrible to admit, so terribly sad and pointless. She pulled away a minute later, seeming to realize his heart was already saying goodbye, down in the depths where no one else would see.

"Oh, I see," she whispered, not looking up at his face.

"It's not… just… a game, Allena," he said, with quiet deliberation.

She paused, trying to find her voice. "Are you talking about the Mahlons, or about us?"

"Everything." He stroked her back, even as she turned away, to make the long, lonely climb back to children and a giant, underground rocket, all shiny and enmeshed in twining pipes and hoses. In a moment, he could hear her running, but he just waited, to let her have her dignity. When he saw her next, she'd probably be wearing one of those high-necked dressing gowns, her girlishness hidden in dark satin and tailored formality.

And now he understood, in his own way, why Starfleet wanted him to be more professional, or bureaucratic, or what-have-you, about all the young space-princesses. And he had to agree, he'd had a choice all along: to get involved, to "interfere," or not. And it hadn't seemed to make any difference at all in the end. Except for the amount of joy, and pain, to be endured.

He didn't want to just shift the blame off to Allena, who was thrust into this great leadership position overnight. But, since they met, had they really talked of anything else besides his eventual leave-taking? They'd joked about it, and sighed about it a dozen times. And, now, when it was time to really start thinking about the inevitable separation, it was suddenly a crisis. Did she feel used? Did he feel his youth slipping through his fingertips? He could only say, now, that he did feel ridiculous.

Nothing makes you feel as young as love, he realized, looking at the rough and pitted tunnel around him. And nothing else makes you feel as old, when it's snatched from your hands. He was momentarily envious of Mr. Spock.

And what was he supposed to do? Lock his heart in a pressure cooker on board his ship? He wasn't a Vulcan—it would turn him into an old man, overnight. Maybe that's why all the other starship captains looked so old. Or had they all just been through too many bad break-ups, themselves? Which path caused the least wear and tear? Or maybe he really wasn't cut out for the job, at all. It all seemed like a terrible mistake, at the moment.

His communicator went off again.

"Kirk here."

"It's Sulu, sir. Better get back up here, Captain. Orions."

"Energize."

He was just closing his communicator and stepping off the pad when the rest of the landing party materialized behind him, suddenly up from under a hexagonal ocean. The red alert was still whooping around every corner of the wide, circular deck, and they all parted ways at the lift, hardly speaking a word: Kirk going up, McCoy passing to get to sickbay, and Scotty going down below to engineering. Emily Carstairs, the geologist, watched them all scatter and went back to her cabin to write up her report on the seismic plates: which would probably complicate the relocation of hundreds of millions.

"Report," Kirk said, taking the center seat from the navigator, who then took over from Tracy, the one of the bridge's "everymen."

"They came right through the hazard, sir. It looks like they lost about ten ships to the rays, so far."

The viewscreen already showed a distant enlargement of the magnetars, and the Orions emerging from between the pairs of spinning rays, which flew out in every direction like the blades of some maniacal swordsman, quickly juggling his steel at impossible angles.

"Explains how they got here so fast," Kirk sighed, crossing one leg over the other, as a yeoman handed him another report to sign.

"Shields?" he asked, after glancing at the helm, over Hadley's shoulder.

"100 percent, Captain."

He tried to guess how many Orion warships would ever actually get within firing range, as they poured out from between the rays. The _Enterprise _was still hovering just below the Chilion terminator, though the moon had finally passed to the exposed side, around them.

And by the time they got all the way over to Chilion, wouldn't they be maddened beyond all talking to, the Orions that survived the transit? And how would it look when the _Enterprise _finally appeared, like a mighty warrior herself, arms upraised for battle?

Maybe they'd be right to blame the whole thing on the _Enterprise_, he mused. Maybe those Mahlon devices were just triggered by her shuttle's little warp engines, to make it impossible for the victorious Chilions to escape the region, when they eventually came up with a faster-than-light drive of their own. After all, how would the Mahlon devices know the difference between Scotty's shuttle visit, and some imaginary Chilion engineering breakthrough, thirty years later? Maybe that was the Mahlons' intention: to keep their conquerors hemmed-in forever; or destroy them on the dawn of their own bold journey into the galaxy.

He found two little statistical questions in the report in his lap, circled them, and gave them back to the yeoman, who nodded and hurried off the bridge again. Maybe he'd have good luck, from giving some lieutenant below-decks a second chance to make things right.

"Open hailing frequency," he said, patting his hands on his thighs impatiently.

"Hailing frequency open, sir," Uhura said, softly but clearly, from over his shoulder.

"This is Captain James T. Kirk, of the Starship _Enterprise_," he said, trying not to sound too automatic. And it occurred to him that he didn't want to offer them medical assistance right away, in case it should sound sarcastic or condescending to proud Orion ears.

There was a pause, during which he listened to the random computer noise around him, and the ever-present din of starship life, and the occasional static sound of the magnetars' rays cutting across space.

"No reply, Captain," Uhura said, adjusting her gain.

"Transmitting log entries and telemetry back to Starfleet?" he asked, rubbing his left eyebrow.

"Yes sir," Uhura said firmly, though some doubt entered her expression, when she looked at the big screen.

"Analysis," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"They've lost their computers, sir." She said quietly, almost consolingly, as if she'd actually said, 'their hearts have stopped beating.'

He nodded in understanding, and cleared his throat. In an hour or so, those ships, or whatever was left of them, would sail by Chilion, out of control. Or burn up in the atmosphere. As for now, the flotilla seemed to come flying out from between the magnetars, still in their smart formation. They seemed bold, even in death.

_They certainly knew how to make an entrance_, Kirk thought, but dare not say. _Or, at least, an exit._

"Can we grab them, Mr. Hadley?"

"The first ships will be in range in almost an hour, at their current pace, sir. But we'd have to leave the shadow to catch up."

Kirk nodded. He wasn't about to take his ship out there if he could avoid it.

"Plot a course within the shadow. We'll see if we can… rescue… at least one of them." At that prospect, though, he just shook his head. Mr. Hadley, at the helm, didn't have the luxury of self-expression, and merely clamped his lips together as he made the calculations to warp out of orbit as briefly as possible, once the dying ships went blurring past.

"They must have thought they could just race through, ahead of the beams," Sulu said, still looking puzzled.

Another yeoman appeared at the captain's elbow, with another report to sign.

"And they took a direct hit," Kirk sighed, looking over the yeoman's wedge-pad. "Well, at least we might get some survivors, to make an accounting to their own people. Prevent any more… hard feelings." A minute or two later he signed the report, and the beautiful young lady nodded, and marched smartly back to the turbolift.

The next hour passed in relative silence as they watched the Orion ships come racing toward them.

"Stand by to overtake," Kirk said, as he got the distance readings he was waiting for from the helm. In his mind, he began a countdown, as the Orion ships spread farther and farther apart, and the rodeo was about to begin. Four of them had disappeared around the other side of Chilion, and five more were about to go arcing overhead.

"Turn and go to warp six," he nodded, when he could feel a little finger-snap in the back of his mind. He thought he could see Sulu nod slightly, too, in agreement on the timing.

The planet and its moon went whipping off to the lower left on the viewscreen, and the ship's big engines roared to life as the Orion vessels flew off to nowhere, disappearing into the space between galaxies. Then, gradually, they came into view again, as the _Enterprise _caught up.

"Aft shields?" he asked.

"Doing well, sir, full power," Hadley said, glancing at the telltale lights on the helm controls.

"We'll be exposed to the beams in two minutes, sir," Sulu said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"Thank you. Distance to tractor range?"

"Two million, sir, and closing rapidly."

"When ready, Mr. Hadley," Kirk said, as the warp engines continued to rumble. A short time later, the tractor beams reached out, invisibly.

Then there was a sound like a heavy electrical current passing through the ship, and a whiplash jerked the _Enterprise_, and the steer-roping began in earnest. Everyone grabbed the nearest hard surface for support, as the tractors locked on the nearest vessel and the hum twisted in their ears like a fishhook, falling in pitch, to a reckless dynamo's dying moan_. _The Orion ship was suddenly visible ahead of them, and began to veer sideways and then straight again, as the _Enterprise _began to reel her in.

"Slow her down, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, though his heart was rising in his throat.

The navigator held down three different key-pads, and the ship made a very loud roar of protest as the warp engines cycled downward through the exponential factors of faster-than-light-speed. Then there was a very unfortunate sounding "crash!" below decks.

Then, as if to signal the Mahlons' long-gone, spectral disapproval, a magnetar beam smashed into the ship from behind. Still, Sulu kept his hands on the controls and Hadley, substituting for Mr. Chekov, glanced upward to re-focus the shields around to aft. They were getting it from both ends, now.

Mr. Tracy, who had taken the seat at the environmental console, reached down to pick up a shiny yellow memory plaque that had clattered to the deck when the gamma ray hit, and Sulu was reciting distance readings as they arduously pulled the Orion ship back from its dying squadron, sailing off on their eternal path. The dynamo-roar of the tractor beams revved again, sending a shiver through the _Enterprise_, and the alien craft drew closer and closer, a little at a time.

In the captain's chair, Jim Kirk was wondering how fast they could return to the safety of Chilion's shadow, but he guessed it would be at least another half-hour, towing the other ship.

"Lieutenant Uhura," he said, half-turning toward her, "set up a meeting in the briefing room, all department heads, as soon as we're back in orbit."

"Aye, sir." She began contacting the different commanders, throughout the ship.

Another blast from the magnetars smashed against the _Enterprise_, seeming totally unnecessary in the midst of a rescue effort. And this time the lights all around the bridge dimmed to near total darkness, and the computers all around the big control ring went haywire for just a fraction of a second. Likewise, the image of the Orion vessel on the screen was replaced by a re-boot signal (the light blue Starfleet insignia of laurel leaves embracing a map of Federation space), and then a weirdly fragmented view of the ship in tow, before the computers re-processed the image and they could see the cold exterior of the dark object, a little bigger than before.

"Not much we can do about it, sir," Sulu said, looking haggard as he peered into the tactical display that had risen up from the helm on scissor-hinges, from the left edge. "Those rays just keep flying every which-way," he added, as the hum of the tractor beams rumbled from deep in the starship, momentarily reeling from the blow, and wheezing like the little engine that could.

"And we're dragging a corpse from the field of honor," the captain said, bitterly. Then: "No life readings at all?" he prodded, to the dark-haired, slender lieutenant who'd taken over from Mr. Chekov at the science station.

"None, sir," he said, having checked already. They got the wrong ship, to boot.

Well, that blows that plan, Kirk thought to himself, crossing his legs again. Without a live Orion to tell the tale, his green-skinned commanders might still choose to believe the _Enterprise _had something to do with all of this, and find some ghastly way of wreaking their vengeance. And, in a roundabout way, they might be right. Of course, the starship's sensors could be wrong…

"I want a team sent over there to get a report together, before we get the… remains back to their people," Kirk said. "Try not to dig around in their computers, too much," he added, wary of any future conspiracy theories. Orions were no better than humans, in that way.

"Aye, sir," Chekov nodded, getting up to leave.

"And put some radiation gear on," Kirk ordered, knowing none of the recovery party would like that, being weighted down by old-fashioned pads and folds and astringent-smelling rebreathers, and suffocating head-gear. And yet, the Russian bore the news gamely, still smiling as he marched to the lift and disappeared. Adventure comes easily to the curious heart.

"Matching speed," Hadley reported, glancing down at the helm controls; the other ship in tow, less than fifty kilometers distant. Gradually, the sound of protesting dynamos faded into the background, from there on out, to be replaced by a rumbling, towing noise within the _Enterprise_.

Already, Jim Kirk was piecing together his remarks for the briefing room, as they dodged clumsily this way and that, on their way back to Chilion's shadow. More than anyone else, he held himself to blame for the intractable standoff with that world, whose rulers would go to any extreme to satisfy their appetites for plasma from the coils. He hoped Allena could rise up, all of a sudden, to take the reins after her brother's death, but that seemed premature at best; just like his hope the desperate straits of her people might force their hand, and soften their monstrous pride. But they seemed transfixed by their own idea of themselves as conquerors and innovators and everyday nobility, if all his observations were correct.

And, again and again, he kept thinking, "if only Spock could get a look at those Mahlon devices." He supposed they could transmit Scotty's report through Chilion, to wherever the first officer had found refuge, and hope he'd have enough information to shut down the damned things, and perhaps the magnetars by extension. Before any more Orions came flying through the beams, to be done in by their own bravado. And before some outrageous new war broke out, over who was boldest and most brave.

Gradually, he came to understand what he had to do next. But first he would go lie down in his cabin for twenty or thirty minutes, just to try to clear his brain.

Instead of feeling refreshed, though, he awoke feeling like a comet tumbling through the atmosphere, buffeted by some strange new atmosphere. It already seemed destined to be an awful meeting ahead.

And when he marched into the briefing room, he was aware that people were spending more time looking down at their folded hands, than in some kind of dynamic chatter. The long hexagonal table had the standard, beautiful yeoman at the far end, with a computer in front of her, and a tri-screen as a centerpiece. And there, on the three screens, identical images showed live images of the science party, in their great, galumphing radiation gear: looking like heavy, ridiculous monsters from a child's own dream, aboard the Orion battle ship.

"How'd they get over there," Kirk wondered, taking the seat at the head of the table.

"We just brought the dead ship into our shadow and our team stepped right in, from a cargo door," Scotty said, watching too.

"Turn it off," Kirk said, not wanting, or needing, to see the scorched green bodies, or those who'd been suffocated at their posts, or frozen to death, if they hadn't been killed outright. The tri-screen went blank and all eyes turned to the captain.

"We're going back to the Mahlons' home planet, to see if we can piece together some understanding of what makes those things tick," Kirk said, referring to the deep space probes, and skipping over all the frustration and recrimination they could have shared over the past week's misadventures. Chiefly, over his own time wasted courting Allena, which had gotten them nowhere.

"I feel I owe you all an apology," he said, his shoulders coming up, expressively. "I thought I could… 'romance' a solution to this problem. But it didn't happen."

"It's worked before," Scotty remembered, helpfully. "Lots of times," he added, helpfully. Though, after a moment, he wished he hadn't, as Doctor McCoy was giving him the strangest glare.

"We'll have to cross on impulse, Captain, for maneuverability," Sulu said, staring into the slanting bulkhead across from him, "and I don't know if we can get back to the original system in less than a month."

Kirk sighed, feeling he'd played his last cards.

"We have to shut down those mechanisms, gentlemen," he said, growing angry. He took a deep breath. "Can…" he began, his hands twisted into claws, and nearly fists before him, "we put shielding on a shuttlecraft to get back to those remote buoys, and just plant charges inside?"

Just then, another gamma ray thundered against the shields, outside, and Dr. McCoy unconsciously put his fingertips on the edge of the table for support.

"The closer we get, the more of _that _we'll take, Captain," Sulu said. "I doubt a shuttle craft could take it.

"We need to find a flaw in the Mahlons' plan. And the Orions' pride," Kirk said. "We're overdue. Or we had a chance, and it's come and gone. Somewhere, somehow, we let it slip through our fingers."

"Signal from the bridge, Captain," the yeoman said, interrupting a heavy silence. Kirk nodded.

"Go ahead, bridge," she said, her finger on the comm panel.

"This is Hadley, sir," came the voice of the helmsman. "Something on our long-range sensors."

"Cross-link to our video," Kirk said, impatiently, feeling as much the fool as every other man in the room.

There, on the little tri-screens, came the image of what appeared to be a huge meteor shower, with some glinting metallic flakes showing here and there. Everyone peered forward, toward the center of the long table.

"It looks like asteroid shepherds," Sulu said, in disbelief, thinking of the daring pilots who went out after raw space glaciers, and plunged them into planets for meager profit.

"Yer getting' prospecting on the brain, Mr. Sulu," Scotty smiled, remembering how the navigator had guessed right about the plasma harvest, and the gravity flume, days ago.

"No, I think he's right," McCoy said, full of wonder, squinting at the small screen.

"Let's go up top and get a better look, Kirk said. In a few moments, half the commanders were crowded into the turbolift, up to the bridge, and the next half waited a respectable minute before putting themselves in the same little tube, under such strange circumstances.

And there they stood, a crowd of seven men around the captain, just watching the image on the big screen. Hadley and Rhada were at the helm. Every officer on the bridge could see the glint of metal hulls inside a flying avalanche.

"Is that what I think it is?" McCoy asked, incredulous.

"It looks like they're shielding themselves with raw asteroids, to go after the Mahlon devices again, Captain," Hadley said, with his usual stoic expression.

"Pushing them with their battleships?" Kirk wondered, knowing they wouldn't have much battle left in them, after this trip. Then:

"Status report on the boarding party?"

Lt. Tracy looked over his shoulder, from the hooded science read-out.

"Boarding party reports no survivors, Captain."

"Give me an on-screen," Kirk sighed. It would have been very handy to have some kind of first-hand testimony if the Orions were true to form, and looking for a fight.

The odd picture of a caravan of great space-boulders tumbling and grinding against the bulbous Chilion warships dissolved, to be replaced by the closed-in internal bulkheads of the Orion ship, as seen over the shoulders of two heavily padded _Enterprise _crewmen. It was impossible to tell if they were men or women under the big steel-mill type helmets and great pads and hoses protecting them against the next flailing gamma rays.

"Look at that," Scotty said, pointing at what everyone could clearly see.

The other members of the boarding party moved out of the way, on the viewscreen, and now the bridge crew stared as the crewman with the video-link stepped over a body, in his great thick boots.

She was strangely beautiful, with the familiar green skin and long tendrils of black hair, and utterly naked: posed provocatively on the forward bulkhead of the narrow bridge, almost like a wooden damsel on the prow of a spinnaker, facing toward the crew.

"That's their computer," Rhada said, glancing up, armed with some unexpected knowledge of the Orion military.

"Wow," McCoy said, not sure if he should look, or look away.

"Hologram," Scotty said.

"It's to make sure they follow orders from their high command," Rhada said, as though it wasn't entirely obvious, the power this three-dimensional image would have over the typical Orion soldier. "And to make sure they pay attention to analysis from a lowly machine."

"I thought their computers were out," Kirk said, shaking himself back to reality.

"Sensors indicate they've now gone into some kind of a standby-diagnostic, sir," Uhura explained.

"She couldn't stop them from running those rays," Kirk said, after a moment. "Let's see the asteroids again, please."

As if she were almost sorry to bid them farewell, the green skinned woman heaved a little sigh, sending her perfect holographic breasts up and down in a sort of double-salute, before the whole Orion ship washed from the viewscreen. The strange wagon train in the stars re-appeared, with the occasional green gamma ray flashing around them, harmless against those enormous boulders.

"They're going to have a hard time stopping, with those things on their backs," Scotty said, trying to estimate the load on the Chilion engines.

"Maybe they won't have to," Kirk said, his chin in the heel of his hand, lifting his fingertips from his lips. The red alert lights blinked silently in rhythm, while the computer lights around them, and the graphic displays, changed in their usual off-beat ways. "They could just crash right into one of those probes."

Another gamma ray thrashed against the starship's shields, like a depth charge along-side a submarine, and Kirk's comment was forgotten.

"I may be able to open a channel now, Captain," Uhura said, on a sudden inspiration. But first, she had to find a way to communicate at all, considering the Chilions' long-distance signaling seemed to be done with rays of light, like the fan of a peacock.

"Captain," Hadley said.

"On screen," Kirk said, assuming the worst.

The image of Chilion, still a few hours away, came up to replace the line of asteroids and the green flashing rays. Then the planet seemed to leap forward at them, as the magnification increased. And, just as Allena had described it, great golden rays of fire were shooting out of several of the planet's hexagonal oceans.

"Oh, my lord," Kirk sighed.

"What is it, Jim?" McCoy, who was standing at Kirk's right hand, leaned forward and squinted.

"They're changing course," Kirk nodded, gravely, toward the screen. "They're heading into the rays."

"But that's insane," McCoy argued.

"Confirmed," Rhada said, at the helm. "Trajectory indicates magnetar approach."

"The royal counsel," Kirk mused, "has decided it's their next best source of energy."

"And that's why they're moving the asteroids?" Scotty asked, unable to keep a scoffing tone from his voice. "Out of some half-mad notion to collect the gamma rays?"

"I don't know," Kirk said. He had not yet learned of General Lysander's hatred of the counsel of advisors, but it all seemed too grand and too fast to be a joint project between the wealthy rulers and the rough-necked military. More like the old men of Chilion were simply taking advantage, somehow, of what had they had just seen of the rocky armada themselves.

"Contact with Mr. Spock," Uhura announced, with great relief and satisfaction.

"How'd ye do that, Lieutenant?" Scotty wondered.

"Laser bundling of transmissions," she said, with a hint of pride. Scotty, and Kirk, nodded respectfully. "I was hoping Mr. Spock could modify the Chilion technology from his end, to receive, and I guess he did!"

"Mr. Spock, come in. You're overdue," Kirk said, needling his punctilious friend.

"A most regrettable delay, Captain," came the slightly fuzzy voice of the Vulcan science officer, after a moment.

"What's up?"

"The Chilion general has mounted an effort to deliver me to one of the Mahlon devices, for an attempt to return it to its dormant state. He will endeavor to place an asteroid between the probe and the magnetars. I trust the _Enterprise _has not been damaged."

"Only by your absence, Mr. Spock," Kirk nodded.

"And what is the condition of the Orion attack force," Spock inquired. There was a little pause, which made the next words inevitable.

"All dead," Kirk said, quietly. There was another little silence.

"Of course," Spock acknowledged.

"We had hoped to maneuver our way back to the Chilions' home system, for a look at their enemy's old world," Kirk said, with a further trace of regret in his voice.

"That should be quite feasible now, Captain," Spock said, from the Chilion flagship, alongside the largest asteroid, out there in the midst of the stars and the Pocket.

"Good luck," Kirk couldn't resist saying.

"Good _logic_, Captain," Spock said, correcting his commanding officer, or perhaps wishing him well in his own way.

"And regards to the Chilion commander," Kirk added, ending the conversation as the knot of department heads around him seemed to drift away, back to the lift, their problems all solved for the moment.

"Good work, Uhura," he sighed, glad to hear from his first officer at last. "See if you can't get Mr. Scott's videos of those devices transmitted across to Spock, as a sort of… preview, of what he's up against."

"Aye, sir."

"Plot a course to the Mahlon home planet, navigator," he nodded, feeling renewed and invigorated at last. "As soon as those asteroids are… more or less in place, let's go."

"Aye, sir, estimating course change in four hours," Rhada said, though she seemed distracted, preparing the mechanics of the journey ahead, pressing different pads on the helm in careful succession. Ahead, on the lower left horizon, Chilion's great oceans seemed to take turns pouring great fountains of fire out through the atmosphere, and into black space. Soon, the captain surmised, they'd be shuffling the weight of their oceans, too, from bed to bed, to get the right spin through open space.

"Boarding party on viewscreen," Kirk said, after a moment, though he wasn't particularly looking forward to the sight of any more dead Orions, and he doubted there'd be any other naked green avatars lingering on the countertops, either. But, in spite of himself, hope still sprung eternal…

As the images on the screen shifted, he tried to imagine using his own ship to shove great rocks around in space, but couldn't even force himself to picture it, or the damage it would cause: grinding away at the hull, and unbalancing the engines, and the computers that marshaled them into action. But, it wasn't his sector to worry about; nor his fortune, or family, or future.

And that just reminded him of Allena, and whatever future they'd never have now. At least she'd find a man with common ties or, failing that, she'd preside over a race of underground Chilions who lived harmlessly off the power of the magnetars (which seemed infinitely preferable to what they'd had before, on a moral plane). Flying right into the magnetars, he marveled. Could there be anything madder than that?

But that was what Mr. Spock was doing right now, for nobler reasons. And this was still the comparative definition of sanity, or morality, even in the 23rd Century: that any being would lay down his life for another. Nevertheless, Jim Kirk hoped they had some very big asteroids in place, when his Vulcan friend crawled inside one of those remote stations.

The _Enterprise _away-team seemed to be heading down a corridor, gray radiation suits bumbling down a gray gangway, on the screen.

"Estimate transit time, for Chilion to arrive in orbit at the magnetars," Kirk said, to no one in particular.

"I'd say, not less than ten years, Captain," Hadley opined. "Chilion swing in a variable orbit with their moon, and juggles the surface weight and shape of their world with those oceans. And those rockets!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at the scientific excess. "And they may have other tricks up their sleeves. But ten years, minimum."

"Let's park the dead ship out here," he said, hoping the Chilions wouldn't notice it, or tamper with it, in the absence of the _Enterprise. _

"Aye, sir, boarding party coming back now."

"Bring them on."

There was another spine-rattling crash, as the magnetars lashed out again, with the _Enterprise _lumbering along with the Orion craft. But, Kirk knew, his big ship would protect his own crewmen as they stepped from one vessel to the next.

Three hours and fifty-five minutes to Chilion's shadow, to ditch the other ship, and then to Mahlon, he told himself, trying to appear nonchalant. But unexpectedly, he suddenly felt a sense of competition with Spock, who was slowly pushing his Sisyphean burden toward the other end of the interstellar crisis. Now, it could be a race. He even ventured to guess it would probably be some sort of joint success in the end. If there was any such thing as success.

And how badly did he want a victory—of any kind—right now? It had all been frustration and failure, as far as he was concerned, since the mission began. The _Aurora _was gone, the royal counsel was still calling the shots on Chilion, the Mahlons appeared to be having the last laugh, and the Orions would be furious. But, in four hours (he fully expected), Mr. Spock would perform one of his standard miracles, pressing a few seemingly random buttons on some totally alien machinery, and all their problems would be solved. Shouldn't that be enough?

But he wanted more. A lot more. He wanted to spend five or ten years with Allena (in spite of the impossibility of that idea), he wanted to find out what happened to the Mahlons, and he wanted Allena to rule peacefully over a glorious little empire all her own, when their time was finally up.

The only problem was that everything he didn't want seemed utterly unavoidable; and everything he did want was completely out of the question.

He got up slowly from the captain's chair and Mr. Scott, who hovered near the engineering console, took his place. A few minutes later, in his cabin, Jim Kirk contacted Allena, on Chilion, one more time.

"I… need a favor," he said, as apologetically as he could.

**Chapter Fifteen **

"And, I'm afraid, that's all I know about them," Allena said, a little embarrassed at her own tenuous grasp of history, and the Mahlon war. She sat prettily, in a pink flouncy skirt, on a padded bench in the "Earth Room:" an elaborate greenhouse, a few decks above the impulse engines of the Starship _Enterprise_.

"A mining dispute," the captain said, leaning back and trying to sum it all up. "And a lot of territorial issues."

"As far as I can remember," she said, as mystified as he was.

"But mining disputes… and territorial issues… don't usually end up with one entire race, just disappearing, completely."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," she said, downcast.

"Well," Jim Kirk said, his eyes wandering across the flowers and variegated plant leaves all around, "I guess we'll both be in for an education, very soon." Chilion was already far behind them, as they warped toward the planet's original system. He felt refreshed after a long nap, and she was pert and gamine in her dress and little matching gloves, with a ridiculous bow in her hair that seemed like a decoratively-folded napkin. Not exactly what he'd expected, for a return to a war zone. But, as the crown wishes…

"Do you like it?" she asked, noticing as his eyes. "It's pink! That's what we wear to funerals, and sometimes when people's legs fall off."

"Very becoming," he said, unable to suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it all. "And if a judge is sentencing someone to death, do they wear the same?"

"Don't be silly," she said. "Men wear pants!"

"Pink pants?"

"Of course, it's a very serious thing!" But he was laughing, and she couldn't help joining in, all the same.

The boatswain's whistle sounded, and he got up and touched the comm panel by the greenhouse door.

"Kirk here."

"We'll be entering Mahlon orbit in about ten minutes, sir," Scotty said, through the little speaker.

"I'm on my way." He reached back toward her and took her gloved hand, and escorted out from amongst the orchids and roses.

"Are you surprised I agreed to come along with you?" she asked, as they stepped into the privacy of the turbolift.

"Well, I guess I am!"

"I'm giving you another chance!" she exclaimed grandly, as if it were a lavish, surprise gift. Then, her voice became quieter, more somber: "Plus, I'm beginning to think we're living under some kind of curse, or other."

"A curse!"

The turbolift, which had been moving inward across the great saucer section paused, and began rising up through the core to the bridge.

"Well, first the buildings were coming down, and then the whole moon itself. And then those cosmic rays. I'm not sure what I did to bring all of this on!"

"I see what you mean. But I'm sure it's nothing to do with you."

When they appeared on the command deck, all the officers stole glances as she emerged from the lift like a ballerina. Out of habit, accustomed to being noticed, she seemed to half-smile and nod as she tried to meet every look, then glance down, and followed the captain to the center seat. Her gloved hands were folded, prim and polite, across her waist as she waited silently by his side.

Mahlon emerged, first as a glimmer, and swam below as they slipped into orbit. As far as Kirk could tell, it was just another Class "M" planet: continents ribbed like a cantaloupe, with thousands of small lakes glinting in the blue light of the near white dwarf.

"Life readings?" Kirk asked. Mr. Chekov, back on duty at the science station, shook his head.

"Scanners show no humanoid life-forms, Keptin." Kirk was interested to notice Allena had folded her arms, as if she felt a sudden chill at the fate of her father's storied exploits.

"Find coordinates for the largest city, and transmit to Lieutenant Kyle, in the transporter room," Kirk said. "Mr. Chekov, I need four people for a landing party."

"Aye, sir," the Russian nodded, tapping a few lighted panels as Kirk offered a bent arm to escort the princess back to the turbolift. She seemed strangely guarded and alert, touching her temple, and then her hearts, with a gloved hand.

Like six swarms of lightening bugs, the landing party gradually took shape on a wide, clean skywalk, overlooking a towering white city, and a blue river that flowed to a nearby sea. As usual, the science officers began snapping open their tricorders, and slowly turning around as they read the screens on each little scanner.

"Is it what you expected?" Kirk asked, as he and Allena stood together, in the widening circle of crewmen, making their way down either side of the skywalk.

"I don't know," she said, barely able to look up at the white marble spires on every side. "It's nothing like the feelies, if that's what you mean. But I suppose it never is," she added, with a newfound distrust of her long-held illusions.

"Captain," Tracy called, from down the walkway. The starship commander and the princess descended hand in hand, her little-girl dress kicking out ahead of her like a small hoop-skirt, with crinolines and lace. It suddenly seemed perfectly appropriate, in this elegant, glistening metropolis, and not like a mourning dress at all. Still her face seemed dark and haunted, as she held a gloved hand up to shield her eyes from the unaccustomed brightness of her father's home star.

"Makes you wonder why you ever left," Kirk said, smelling the fresh sea air coming in with the soft sound of the waves.

"I suppose," she said, still withdrawn. A breeze tousled her dark hair. He wondered when she'd ever break free of this enforced sense of doom.

"Captain, there's a…museum of some kind, over that way," Tracy said as they approached.

"We'll have a look, Lieutenant. You… see what's a little more current."

"Aye, sir," Tracy said, ducking his head over his tricorder, and slowly turning around in circles as the little machine _whirred_.

"You have a very strong grip," Kirk said, with a smile. She was holding his great right bicep with all her might.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," she said, and then almost seemed to say it again, _"terribly sorry,"_ with a just a sigh in the exact same verbal melody.

"I'm surprised no one has moved in, it's all so beautiful," he said, as they turned another corner, down another sweeping white avenue.

"I shouldn't have come," she said, very quietly, after another few steps.

"I'll protect you."

"I probably don't deserve it," she said, seeming to shiver.

"It was all before you were born!"

"It's all the same," she said, nearly in tears, for no apparent reason. He wondered if it could be a fear of open spaces, after living her whole life in a floating palace. But then she spoke, in choked words: "I'm my father's daughter. I carry responsibility for all of this! I always will," she said, though it made no sense to him, and her words echoed softly against the white, empty buildings. Of course, when she was wearing that ridiculous dress, he couldn't help but sweep her up in his arms for a long quiet minute, in the empty street.

"I'm all right," she said at last, and he set her down. She straightened her skirt and they walked to the huge columned facade at the end of the block, his boots and her little heels making vague scratching noises on the pavement. Occasionally he glanced upward: wondering if someone far up in one of the marble skyscrapers might be looking down on them, too—in spite of the seeming absence of life-form readings.

He began to worry that she would, inevitably, be shocked by the museum: to find the Mahlons were a people more or less like her own, shown in the usual tableaux with artifacts of bravery and beauty, just like every museum on every other planet. But then again she might say, or see something that opened a door of understanding for him, in the process.

He wasn't too surprised to find the big doors were locked, and flashed his small phaser between the castle-like planks, melting a hasp inside with a flat metallic "twang." He pushed his way in, and Allena followed.

They heard their footsteps echo as they closed the door behind them, but what really overwhelmed their senses was a great skylight overhead, through which a majestic beam of light shone down through stale dust. Below that, tropical-looking plants overflowed from their planters, to the point where they covered most of the floor in the center of the grand hall. Odd light-sculptures quietly built and demolished themselves in alcoves and corners; while crystalline, spider-like creatures seemed to dance upside-down on the vaulted ceiling, swinging one-over-another, like acrobats: sometimes like stars with radiant light for spindly legs; and sometimes those legs became like curling eyelashes, blinking here and there over their rainbow-bubble bodies. Reflected light from the ocean seemed to dapple below that on the walls, but there was no view of the ocean in sight.

"It's like some kind of… _carnival_," she said, hushed. "Or a drug-fiend's hallucination."

She stepped forward: seeming to wonder if the spiders overhead might drop down suddenly upon her, or the tropical plants might rise up and grab her—but still she moved forward, her arms out from her body, slightly, uneasily.

He joined her and they walked from wing to wing, and gradually determining that the Mahlons were definitely humanoid—but textured like trees or smooth like striped gazelles, in human form, and strangely sexless, going by all the paintings and statues. If there was some analog to male and female, let alone a third or fourth gender, they seemed to be missing the difference.

"Wait," Allena said, stopping in another dusty, cavernous room, and looking around suddenly. Jim Kirk silently thanked his lucky stars that she had finally remembered something.

"There was something about making babies," she said, sounding perfectly serious, in her little-girl dress.

He didn't want to break her train of thought, so he merely nodded, and waited.

"Malcolm used to get so angry," she said, quietly, though her voice echoed in the huge room. She seemed to be reliving a long-ago, childhood experience, and looking up, as seeing her older brother many years ago. "It was something to do with the way… they thought we were dirty! For having babies the 'old fashioned way.' They had become sort of mono-sexual, somehow, over the many thousands of generations, and strictly used laboratories to create each new generation. So, our way was somehow disgusting and animalistic; or base and crude…"

"Maybe they were just very repressed," he said.

"But that was part of the raging under-current, don't you see?" she added. "It was just the thing that made it all so personal: far more than just a mining dispute. It became a matter of outrageous pride, almost without anybody thinking twice about it. Of course, I was too young to understand it, why it was all so inflammatory, the sheer hatefulness of their depiction of us, and our male-and-female ways."

"I suppose there's always some new form of moral one-ups-man-ship, when it comes to that. Somebody's always got to look worse," he added, taking her hand and leading her to the next room.

"But don't you see? They must have been right! That's why they were able to ascend to some higher plane, and we're stuck here!"

"You don't think the war just killed them all off?"

"No! Look at this place," she insisted, holding her arms out and slowly turning around before him. "Does it look like some sort of annihilation?"

He had to concede the point. It actually looked more like the Mahlons had simply gone for the weekend.

"Then," he asked, "where did they go?"

"Nobody knows," she said, gradually regaining a worried quietude. "Some magical parallel universe, that's what everyone says. But, without any evidence of that, it looks enough like genocide to poison our own future, too. " The urgency of it all still made her cheeks red. And, perhaps if she hadn't been wearing that absurd dress, he might have given it some serious thought. Now, instead, they were in the next chamber looking up and around. But she wouldn't let it go.

"And that's another set of contradictions, colliding together!"

"What's that," he asked.

"Well, first of all, here I am, on Mahlon, that's two contradictions coming to meet. Then there's the steady devastation of victorious Chilion. And Mahlon, which was crushed, is somehow glorious in defeat. And our space-fleet is devastated by them, decades after it was all over. And you and me."

"How do you mean," he asked.

"Well, we're living on this sort of borrowed time: sooner or later you'll go on to your next port of call, and gods only know what's going to happen to me. And yet, even though it's absolutely doomed, we're still so happy together. Or, at least, I'm so happy," she added. "Maybe we're happy because it's so doomed! There's absolutely no pressure to plan for the future or change myself, or change you, in any way. It's all a terrible contradiction!"

"I'm very happy," he said, taking her hand, and then her elbow, and then their chins touched, and then their lips, amidst all the alien artwork, on all sides, and the twenty-meter ceilings and the skylights set in. He prayed his communicator wouldn't choose that exact moment to go _beep_. But nevertheless Allena pulled away, as if she'd suddenly got a message from her own secret, invisible spaceship. He didn't know why. It just didn't add up properly. And now she looked slighted, in spite of her softness.

"You know, I could just marry Mr. Exmoor, and then he'd probably only live another five or ten years, and then who knows? You might be tired of plying the space-lanes and come back for me!"

He glanced up over her shoulder, amused, but far from laughing. For one thing, there were no "space-lanes" out where he travelled, out on the fringe. But that wasn't really the point. The point was that when someone like her married someone like Exmoor, the old man always managed to live a lot longer than expected. But Jim Kirk assumed she was only taunting him with the concept.

"Of course, who knows, with the love of a good woman, he could live much longer," she sighed, languidly, clearly on the same train of thought. Now, she wandered off into the next huge gallery, as if she had finished studying him, and was blithely prepared to write James T. Kirk off completely.

"Even though Chilion is flying straight into its own doom," he said, standing alone in the middle of the gallery room. His words were so quiet that it was strangely deafening, as she strained to hear the meaning in his strangely deficient single heart, as she strolled away.

Then she stopped, in the next museum room, as if admiring another enigmatic work of art, derived from the crackling of inspiration in the gulf between totally alien brain cells. He wandered along behind her, leaving the old room behind.

"Do you think we could ever have a future together, if you stay on that course?" he asked, standing a foot or two behind her, pressing the point about the rendezvous with those magnetars. "You'd be completely isolated, and no other ship would dare come near."

"I don't know," she said, with an air of quiet defiance, her eyes studying the bottom edge of a picture frame before her, as if she preferred not to examine the subject matter at hand.

"There are a million ways to make energy, in this universe," he said.

"We had a perfectly good way, until you came along," she grumbled.

"You were destroying innocent lives," he said, trying not to lose his quiet tone.

"Uncle Brax says it's sort of a miracle when innocent lives don't get lost," she said, without thinking, moving to the next huge wall-mounted holograph. He says the innocent are always the first to go, almost by definition." But the color had drained out of her face, as if she had lost something of her own life in just saying those words.

"He must have a very… sophisticated… view of things," Kirk said, ruefully. Meantime, she seemed to be growing more and more panicked again, as if confounded by the wildly different nature of the men dominating her life.

"Those things you call 'magnestars,' or what-have-you," she said, with an unpracticed attempt at haughtiness, " they've supplied our world with life for many years, up till now. And, yes, they've suddenly become this terrible contradiction, themselves, bringing death and destruction. But they're still potentially a very great source of power," she said, her breath becoming uneven, as she tried to focus on some incomprehensible meaning in the artwork before her. But, from her breathing, it seemed she might burst into tears again at any moment, from repeating the royal counsels' viewpoints to an unsympathetic audience, and wanting to cry as if all her own world's plotting had finally become too difficult to bear. "Can't you see? It's our destiny," she added, her voice choked with a horrible inherited truth.

"No," Kirk said, coming around and standing right in front of her. "It may _possibly_ be your fate. But it's not your destiny. That's something you can choose for yourself."

"You'll have to forgive me," she said, wiping a gloved hand against her cheek and looking slightly wild. "I'm afraid everyone's a little more sophisticated than I am, today." With that, she turned and ran back the way they'd come, out into the great entry-hall of the museum. And by the time Kirk got to the grand entrance, she was gone. Only the busy, glassy spiders overhead seemed to remain, weaving their private plans against the sky.

When he got back to the beam-down coordinates at the river bridge, he could see up and down several major boulevards, but still no sign of Allena. He imagined she was just walking the empty streets, passing the tall white buildings as one might review a silent battlefield cemetery years after the bloodshed, between impossibly tall headstones.

It was quite strange, all of a sudden, for her to be out alone. Before Malcolm had died, there was usually at least a driver, who doubled as a bodyguard. Or Hulda, clucking along behind her, spinning some old lady monolog as they walked through a secluded forest or along some royal lake. Now it was just her, walking down an empty city street. She kept trying to stop looking regally serene and presentable, as she imagined the enmity that must have filled these streets when she was just a girl.

She didn't know how she felt about having great buildings springing directly up from the ground like chalky cliffs on all sides, artfully sculpted, so they didn't quite so obviously resemble ravenous teeth. She tried to imagine how nice they'd seem, floating hundreds of feet up in the air, and even held up one gloved hand to try to hide the earth-bound foundations of the structures before her. Then, she focused her eyes only on the tops of the skyline, but that didn't quite work, as everything was still organized into oh-so-practical blocks and grids and shoreline. What would the people in all those buildings have done in the rainy season, trapped below the weather? Get wet, she supposed.

She rather wished it would rain right now, but that was not about to happen. She could feel some kind of chilly, nerve-induced downpour down her back, and the anxious crackle of lightening around her head, like static-electric charges in her hair. But she supposed that was just the way world leaders were supposed to feel, regardless of the actual state of things, or in defiance of their actual state.

Where did they all go, she wondered. Swept up into some kind of nightmarish whirlwind, in some alternate universe? Only the mono-sexuals are allowed, only the born-in-a-laboratory-pure. She wanted to tap on the doors of the thick glass entryways, as if the doorman might have temporarily stepped away, and perhaps she'd be admitted, too. But the whole city seemed locked up and shut down, and there was none to welcome her with the usual quaint little bows or curtsies.

She could just barely see herself out of the corner of her eyes, on either side of the street, in the empty plate glass windows. Her pink dress bounced up ahead of her a bit, with every step, and she pretended there was actually a whole phalanx of unprepared royal girls walking quietly down the street, in an infinitely long line, stretching left and right. The idea comforted her for a while, that everywhere there might be special people of no particular talent. She waved a little this way, with one hand, and then the other way, as she'd do in an actual outdoor procession, and all the reflections waved too. But there were no cheers, no bands playing the family marching song. Just the faint hiss of the waves on the water, several blocks over… that way?

If this was freedom, it felt a little chilly and entirely too quiet. Click, click, click, went her heels on the sidewalk. And when the sun, the real, actual, warm bright sun went down, how cold would it be then? She supposed she'd have to go back up to the captain's ship and back to her world. And none the wiser.

But she'd seen Mahlon, now, and that was something practically none of her fellow Chilions could say. The very idea intrigued her: that she was now, suddenly, an explorer of sorts; the conqueror princess, surveying the spoils of her father's victory. However strange and hollow that victory now proved to be.

And yet they were so clever, the Mahlons, how could they simply vanish like that and not be interested in how the war came out? They could have won the war, perhaps, if they hadn't simply decided to disappear in a hole in the Pocket. Perhaps they were somewhere in some sideways version of reality right now, watching her and having a good chuckle over the mystery, and over those magnetars, too.

What message could she bring back, in her state of utter isolation? She could hear Uncle Brax, "we must all move over there at once, for safety and to make our victory complete!" As if he would build a children's playground in a cemetery. She couldn't hate the man, whom she'd known all her life, who'd brought her presents as a little girl and treated her like a grown-up when everyone else wanted her to stay a child. He always knew just how to handle people, she thought. But as soon as those last words formed themselves in her inner ear, they became tinged with frost.

A lot of things had become tinged with frost, in the last week or so. For every new bit of regal trappings she felt suddenly draped upon her shoulders, she was equally aware that people were treating her differently: in a calculated way, as though they were suddenly extremely conscious of what might come back to them, in exchange. As if a crown were just a tool of corruption, imposed by the people on an unsuspecting heir, like a coin dropped in a vending machine.

She paused at an empty street corner and looked both ways, carefully, to amuse herself before crossing. Jim Kirk would have grinned too, she felt sure. She wished that there was something that he wanted from her, that might make him a little more conscious of their relationship. But she still felt as though she were cocooned, or that her limbs were numb, from royal trappings, and youthful inexperience. And not having anything really available to impress him made him strangely unattainable, and that much more desirable, and showed the maddening limits of her power.

But she had _some _power, she insisted to herself. She supposed she could order a bunch of summary executions, but of whom? A long stone table of old, old men? That seemed to be what the captain wanted, but she shuddered, imagining guards chasing them down on their crutches, or in their wheelchairs. She pulled the straps of her dress up over her shoulders again, as if it might keep her warm.

Then, as she was nearly across a ten-lane street, where two great sweeping , silent boulevards came together, and just as she was trying to project a powerful attitude in her posture and with her chin held high in the air, the heel of her shoe caught in a grate or a storm sewer, and she went tumbling down like a brick-and-mortar smokestack, flailing for a quick moment forward, until she crashed into the pavement.

So, this is power, she told herself, examining the palms of her gloved hands as she rolled to a sitting position. Her right shoe was certainly ready for some alternate universe, some paradise for defeated footwear. She smoothed her pink frothy skirt, and ran her fingers over her knees and ankles as if she were merely performing a long, fluid dance-phrase, and not searching for sprains or broken bones. Finally, she got up, and began hobbling back the way she'd come, or so she hoped. After all, the alien sea caressing an alien beach seemed to be on the opposite side of her head, though one dark glassy entryway looked the same as any other, along the thoroughfare, and any sound seemed to echo back and forth between long lines of buildings. She really had no idea where she was, or which way she was going. Hopeless, she told herself. She tapped the broken shoe in the palm of her hand, like an old man's smoking pipe.

But she certainly wasn't feeling numbness or cocooned any longer. She would have preferred it, to the various aches and bruises that were spreading along her shins and knees and wrists as she found herself moving faster and faster, with a staggering shuffle, back toward the museum and the river bridge, as darkness fell.

The general feeling of annoyance and being hobbled and ridiculous somehow reminded her of her last little meeting with Uncle Brax. She'd been hearing his voice all her life, of course, the sort of "now, let's think this over," tone; the too-much-sweetness-on-that-wisdom lilt, as he laid those words down on her soul, like a wet cloth on a smoldering ember, just as she was about to leave for Mahlon.

"_Now, you know that Captain Kirk killed your brother, don't you?"_

She didn't know what to say to that, except that, at this point in life, she had far outgrown the need for someone to tell her what to think about handsome young men. To her way of thinking, Malcolm had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Obviously, it was heroic for him to be trying to clear-out a floating tower, after the harvest had been ruined or impaired or what-have-you by the _Enterprise_. But what was she to say about the poor people who'd already died on that first ship?

Who knew? She added, to herself, watching the sidewalk go up and down as she limped back the way she came (she hoped). It may have been the tenth ship, or even the hundredth ship, to wrangle the gravity just a bit with its engines, to make the harvest safe for Chilion's ramjets, along the blinding trail. It was all new to her. Had it been new to Malcolm, too, or had he known all about the _Aurora_?

She supposed all the royal counsel had known, all along, or why would they have allowed her to be romantic with the captain all this time, till Uncle Brax decided to tell his little secret, so very gently?

And suddenly, she was infuriated that her own hearts had become this sought-after little patch of real estate, like the plasma coils themselves: one these ridiculous men thought they could use to get whatever they wanted: in this case, to trap Captain Kirk when push came to shove. She put the broken shoe back on her foot and her calves worked furiously as she tried to hurry along, almost like a wounded herbivore, across the plain, when a wildcat's begun its hungry chase. Her reflections raced by, appearing in and out of the curving face of plate glass windows, streaking over or under the slight bubbling of the glass on either side, a leaping pink blob that stretched in all sorts of improbable ways, being chased down by some rushing predator in the tall white grass.

"Allena!"

The voice echoed around maddeningly, in a wide intersection, as she ran limping across. But she'd made up her mind to escape, and resumed her furious, uneven pace.

"Allena!"

A moment later a pair of great strong golden arms caught her and she was brought down in a rush. It was Jim Kirk, the man she'd become so good at running away from, and now she fought to get free again.

"You killed Malcolm!" She didn't know why she said it; it just raced out of her like the last gasp of an evil spirit.

Then, what astonished her even more was that he wasn't speaking, he was just kissing her—seemingly in reverse order from the last time, where he ended up with those awful, horrifying "we're-not-lovers-anymore" kisses on the cheek that still infuriated her.

But as his kisses followed her tears, working his way from her cheek, or the back of her jaw, toward her mouth, she found the fight going out of her, and a sense of righteous indignation going down to defeat. And all those white buildings were gold and pink at the tops now, and he was cradling her in his arms in the quiet breeze. The ruthless hunting field was gone, and she could almost hear the individual waves crashing out along the unknown shore.

"I think I must have run off too soon, last time," she said, remembering the underground passage, and how hurt and insulted she felt.

"You probably had some very important duties to attend to," he said, between their lips.

"I probably did," she said, very earnestly, along the empty beach.

"I know a nice little place around here, we could go for dinner."

Night crept across the waves, and slowly up to the height of the city, across the metropolitan bay. The white dwarf slipping between the buildings sent violet rays out into a silvery new mist, creating another, nearly invisible city of rays above the sea, comprised of that faint fog, broken by the occasional clear patch in the dusk.

They sat at a table covered in white linen and balanced on the sloping sand. And, one by one, champagne and glasses, and a plate of strawberries and cheese, and then their glistening plates and silverware each twinkled into existence before them. She was suitably impressed.

"Well," she shook her head, nonplussed at the transporter's magic, "talk about worshipping energy!"

"You can worship whatever you want," Kirk smiled, "as long as it only challenges you to be better." He began pouring champagne.

"Suppose I want to learn another language," she said, "that would challenge me, and it wouldn't hurt anybody else. I could call that a religion, too, I suppose."

"You'd have to ask your language teacher about that," he said, tinkling his crystal flute against hers.

"Clever," she said, taking a sip. He reached over and tried to straighten the little mesh bow in her hair, but she started to wince and giggle and popped it out with her free hand. She seemed instantly more grown up again.

An unearthly rumbling developed behind them, in the city. It had started very briefly as an almost sub-sonic roar, from the foundations of the world. And Kirk was standing now, with his communicator open.

"Kirk to _Enterprise_, Kirk to _Enterprise_, come in."

Allena was already running barefoot, half-way down the beach and into the little waves that struggled up in shadowy blue and bronze, like the first fingers of evolution, reaching out to dry land. She stood looking back at the skyline in its silhouette, a horrified glare of astonishment on her face as the breeze whipped at her hair.

"_DAUGHTER OF JONOFF!" _a thunderous voice boomed, all around. And, up the shore, a flock of seabirds began to shriek.

**Chapter Sixteen **

**CAPTAIN'S LOG:** **Supplemental**_. In an instant, we were swept from the Mahlon beach, to someplace dark and empty. But where? An alternate universe, where the Mahlons had fled? Or a universe beyond a dozen others, in some anteroom to paradise, or perdition, that one imagined they might have found among dimensions beyond reason: panning for gold through an infinity of infinities._

Or, perhaps they were still on the beach, and merely overwhelmed by the power of the ghostly empire, blinding them to things as they were.

All was darkness, except for Kirk and Allena themselves. They were perfectly clear, as if standing backstage, in the midst black drapes that shielded the real from the imaginary. And out of the darkness, with a good approximation of rhythm and gait and posture, another Allena swam or walked into view, though her features and her pink dress and her hair and her flesh seemed to be made of fluttering moths' wings, not quite settled into place, not quite solid.

"You are Queen Allena?" the other Allena asked, her voice also coming together from many hissing strands of sound, into a sand-papery imitation of Allena's normal speaking voice.

"Well, there hasn't been a coronation yet," she said, somewhat surprised by the question.

"Wise foresight," the other Allena answered, gradually coming into sharper focus, and seeming to smile with a hateful look.

"It's all the same to me," Allena said, shaking her head and glancing over at Kirk, in the darkness. "There's not much of a world left to rule over, anymore."

"In this universe," the reflection said, "all things come to fruition, and all things fade away."

"Well, if it's some other way in your universe, I'd certainly rather be there," Allena dared to joke.

"Many other ways," the new Allena said, now seeming to writhe or dance faintly, like a flame on a match, as if feeling the rhythms of the multitudes of overlaid realities all pounding against her body, eliciting a constant shudder of pleasure. It was as if the sheer range of all the other universes had become a kind of overwhelming madness to this creature before them.

"Yes, well," Allena said, growing politely disenchanted, "I'm sure there's a whole new universe for every Mahlon, and that each and every Mahlon achieves some wonderful new perfection in his own god-like state. Or, at least, some sort of god-like authority." Then, she added with seeming helpfulness, "like the way people buy up whole planets in this Universe: masters of all they survey. And you see how well that's worked out."

The Mahlon image began fluttering again, like a million moths' wings. A kind of iridescent powder seemed to rise off its many little feathers, or wings, like a faint, silvery steam.

"How'm I doing?" the real Allena said, smiling over at Kirk. Every time she turned or moved, the rustling apparition raised its downy scales on the matching body parts.

"You can talk like this to a Mahlon who may have all kinds of terrible, devastating powers," Kirk said in dour disbelief, "but you can't do it to a room full of legless old men on your own world?"

"Yes. It's funny, isn't it?" she agreed, tilting her head, and watching as the other Allena began shifting shape. "But I suppose I can talk to myself any way I like." She shrugged, and the Mahlon's newly slender shoulders shrugged too.

"I thought you said they were sexless." He couldn't help smiling.

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter," she said, rolling her eyes at the prospect of one of him and two of her. "Look, it's you now," she said, as the apparition seemed to be fluttering into the shape and colors of the captain, his broad, thick shoulders and square jaw.

"Oh, dear, now what'll I do with three of you?" she wondered, overwhelmed.

"Three?"

"Well, Mr. Exmoor is practically the same, except he also has the benefit of wisdom and experience. Oh well," she sighed, "I suppose at least two of you will have to have broken hearts, now."

"You know," he said, "maybe if you'd just stop being ironic, it could settle into one shape and we could start getting somewhere, like back to the _Enterprise_." And, indeed, the fuzzy, fluttering image of the captain was getting fuzzier and more indistinct before them.

"Not my fault if they never learned to deal with irony. Probably why they couldn't settle for just one universe," she said, folding her arms appraisingly.

"James T. Kirk," he said, gently pushing her aside, in the darkness, to try to capture the apparition's full attention. But he couldn't blame Allena for treating the matter as somehow ridiculous. What else could you do when you were dealing with a race that had everything beyond imagination but, apparently, still wanted something from you?

"We'd like to ask you," Kirk said, respectfully, "to shut down the gamma ray devastators. Tens of billions of lives are at stake."

"It is our obligation to the galaxy," the apparition said, its throat sounding full of moths, as well, "to prevent the expansion of our Chilion enemies."

"The Chilion race is under new management," Kirk said loudly and distinctly, as if making a very long subspace call. Gradually, he brought his tone under control, though. "King Jonoff is dead, and so is Prince Malcolm. You have an opportunity to create a new relationship with Princess Allena now. Why not take it, and develop something much greater than the ravages of war, your fathers left behind?"

"We believe the Chilions are still dominated by the same leaders, who remain, who fought us to near-extinction." Its voice was even and hard, now. And he could hardly argue with supposition.

"Suppose," he said, wishing he could think a little faster, "Allena agrees… to remove… the old leaders on the royal counsel—completely. And reign, herself, on Chilion. In cooperation with the United Federation of Planets." His hands were flattened out like contractual pages, shuffling earnestly, emphatically, this way and that.

There was a pause, as if a great many people were thinking this over, in this one alien before them: all the Mahlon gods in all the Mahlon universes. In the meantime, the moths' wings that covered its body slowly rippled straight up, iridescent and strangely tense.

"We must appraise the situation, and assess the character of the queen," the image said, at last.

"And, if you're… satisfied… then you'll set things back… the way they were, in the black hole constellation?"

"As far as we are able," came the raspy reply.

"Do you think you can do it?" he asked, turning to the princess, who seemed a bit overwhelmed.

"I'm not sure I have any choice," she whispered.

Then they were back on the beach, a moment after they'd left, with no twinkling light and no discernable, magical noise, other than the quiet sighing of the waves in the near-dark. And suddenly the champagne seemed ridiculous, in spite of the serenity of the shore and the stillness of the city behind them.

Late that night, hours later, someone rang the buzzer at the captain's quarters on board the _Enterprise. _They had alreadywarped out of the Mahlons home system, to make her way back to the wandering Chilion. And, as Jim Kirk rolled out of bed, the door snapped open to reveal the princess.

"May I come in?" she asked, seeming to brush off the corridor lights like a long hood, as she came haltingly into his cabin.

"What's wrong," he asked, rising and meeting her half-way, where the little work-space was divided off from the equally Spartan bed area.

"I woke up, and there it was!"

He sat her down by his desk-shelf, in a tall padded chair, while he wiped the sleep off his face. He waited for her to elaborate.

"The Mahlon, it was right there when I woke up just now."

"In your cabin?"

She nodded, imploring him with her eyes, leaning forward, as if he would inevitably have the right answer to this strange haunting. He leaned back, feeling slightly amazed.

"Well, maybe we'd better go have a look," he said, getting up again.

"May I stay here?" She seemed to have slumped down in the chair, hopelessly.

It was just a quarter-turn around deck five to her visitor's quarters, and the door snapped open when he touched the buzzer. And there it was, leaned like a broom in one corner.

"To… what do we owe the honor of your company," Kirk asked.

The Mahlon rustled like a pile of a million tiny leaves, as its feathers (or wings) formed knowing, hazel-colored eyes in the appropriate space, and other humanoid features followed. In less than a minute, it had re-formed into the image the captain, himself.

"You know, impersonating a Starfleet officer is a serious offense."

The Mahlon ruffled back into non-descript softness.

"Is it really necessary for you to… be present with Allena… daughter of Jonoff?"

"To see if her resolve is genuine." The Mahlon spoke, but it wasn't at all clear where the words were coming from, on its face or on its body.

Kirk nodded, having the same question himself.

So, of course, the topic turned to her elderly advisors, once again, when Kirk got back to his cabin, to find her looking forlorn: arms folded in the dark, where he'd left her.

"Well, they meet together the night before church every week," Allena sighed, as he walked her over to the little bed.

"And that's three days from now?" Kirk frowned.

"Four." She lied down and curled up like a baby, nostalgic for its mother's womb, on the bunk.

"Can't you call them all together in a meeting before then?" As he sat down next to her, and stroked her shoulders, he was suddenly aware that she seemed a lot more banged-up from her run through the city than he'd thought. Or maybe she also tumbled out of bed when she woke up to find her father's sworn enemy towering over her, fifteen minutes ago in her cabin. He made a few gentle gestures to straighten out the mess, laying a torn section of her dress back in place, and brushing the insides of his fingers over a sprinkling of red speckles on her knees and elbows. But somehow, it completed the picture of a little girl who'd dressed for a party, but found herself in a blood feud along the way. And yet, her breasts and her long dancer's limbs belied the image of a little tom-boy who'd met with disaster.

"I suppose it's possible," she said, trying to figure out how to get all those royal advisors together on such short notice. She looked across the little bedroom space, toward the bathroom door, as if it were some ironic escape, a million miles away. But when she closed her eyes, he leaned down, and she could feel the warmth of his face pulsing near her cheek. He slid on to the bed, wrapping himself around her from behind.

An hour or two later, she had pulled his sleeping hand up to her lips, and was using it to wipe away a strand of hair. He sighed.

"I suppose I could tell them I've had a sort of top-level meeting with a Mahlon, after all these years," she sighed.

"So riled," he said, still astonished at his first encounter with the old men, where he'd demanded an accounting of all the ships that had been destroyed before the _Amphora_, and at the chaos that erupted at his implied accusation.

"Because you're a man," she shrugged, her shoulder coming up to his mouth, irresistible to his lips.

"They're used to getting what they want," he said quietly, in her ear.

"Everybody's used to that, except me."

"And it looks like it's all going down to ruins either way," Kirk said, also rolling on to his back.

"Don't say that, please."

He stroked her arm and she rolled again, up against him, watching him watching the ceiling.

"What do other women say about you," she wondered, changing the subject with a languid air, and tousling the hair on his forehead.

"What other women?"

"Yes, very clever," she squinted. "Don't you want to know what other men say about me?"

He hoisted himself up on one elbow, and she reclined gracefully on the bunk again, folding her arms on her chest like a mummy, but also delighted to be admired.

"Do they say… your eyes are like twin eclipses?"

"No," she laughed.

"Do they say… you're fiercely loyal, even when people want to take advantage of you?"

"They probably should," she said, turning glum again.

"Do they say… that your beauty is like the sudden shift in the breeze? Something that just makes a man stop and back up and smell the air, trying to capture it again and again for the first time? Until he's just lost in the vibration?"

"I don't know what that means!" she laughed again. He raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at her.

"It means everything to me." And then their eyes met again, as if they were finally seeing one another for the first time.

Looking back, of course, he should have known the intercom on the countertop behind him would _beep _suddenly, just at that moment. He rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bunk, while she watched.

"Captain," Sulu's voice came down from the bridge, "we're still two hours out of Chilion, but long-range sensors register a massive seismic quake. Possibly triggered by those underground rockets."

"Understood. Best speed, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, his head feeling heavy again as he tapped the intercom to the "off" position. Beneath them, the sound of the warp engines thrummed up another octave, ringing through the ship.

"That's why the royal advisors never actually got around to using the underground rockets before," Allena said, rolling up into a ball on the bed, her knees under her chin. "Now they must think they've got nothing to lose."

"Funny how things turn around like that," Kirk said, sitting on the edge of the bed again.

"But don't you see? Now we can collect energy without all that horrible bloodshed! They've put all sorts of collectors and refractors all through space. If they can just catch some of that energy and channel it into usable form, somehow," she said, trailing off, as if it were simply the next logical step. Then, with very little movement, she suddenly looked very philosophical, alone on the little section of the bunk, realizing she was about to become the besieged queen in a bankrupt empire.

"Of course," he said, weary of Chilion scheming, all of a sudden, and getting up to leave.

"Wait," she said, her fist coming up to her mouth, as if she would almost block the words before they came out. "Does every planet have some horrible past that it's running away from? Something that's always comes back to haunt it, like this?"

He paused, his hand on the automatic door, as cadets and yeoman streamed by in the usual efficient, non-stop way out in the corridor.

"A lot of them do," he said, after thinking.

"What do they do?" she asked.

He didn't want to just say "I don't know," even though it was true. How did any planet reconcile its own rude path to glory, or destruction?

"Sometimes that 'haunting,' by the Mahlons, or by whomever …is a second chance for the victors to set things right," he managed to say, as the light from the doorway cut across the cabin and on to the bunk, his long shadow falling across and to the far corner of the room. Then, he was gone in the passing stream of crewmen around the curving corridor. And the shaft of light closed up, like the flash of a mirror on a circus carousel, as the horses flew by.

"None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for the _Enterprise_," Mr. Babbington was saying as he lightly, rhythmically pounded on a lectern the meeting cavern, as emergency crews hustled back and forth beyond the entryway, out in the gantry pit, beyond the guards and the arched entrance. The lights overhead had been flickering for so long that no one seemed to notice any longer.

"Why did you let her go, Babbington," one of the very old men in the underground chapel protested, though he sounded very tired, himself.

"To see a dead, abandoned world?" Babbington scoffed gently.

"It's _moral_ contamination," another old man ventured, with a quavering voice, as he tried to raise a gnarled old hand in remonstration. A few others around the rocky, underground chamber echoed the phrase "moral contamination" to their hearing-impaired bench-mates.

"Now," Babbington resumed, paying no attention, "the worst that can happen is that she and Captain Kirk would want to get married, and we'd be stuck with his influence for the foreseeable future. But the more likely next step, to my mind, is for Allena to move up her coronation, and seek some kind of alliance with the Captain's federation."

"I love a coronation," one of the chubbier old men said, his eyes going all dewy.

"Oh, shut up," said another man on the bench in front of him.

"Are we making any headway in channeling the energy of those gamma rays?" another old man demanded to know.

"Yes, we have every hope of restoring and re-calibrating our harvest network, putting us back at full power in a matter of weeks, sir," the head of the royal counsel nodded confidently.

"But that fool Lysander," another counsel member said loudly, "has been blocking off the radiation with those damned fool rocks!"

"We must respect the wisdom of the general," Babbington said, looking down, and furrowing his brow. "If just one of those rays hit Chilion full-on, it could blow our atmosphere off like the flame from a match."

At this there was a quiet chorus of grumbling and frustration.

"We'll get our power, gentlemen, and with it our freedom, once again," Babbington proclaimed, with a big, frozen smile on his face.

Then, unexpected and unbidden, Captain Kirk stepped in to the chapel cavern, with Allena lightly holding his elbow. He wheeled to a confident stop, like some old Viennese waltz expert, and she stepped in ahead of him to begin the slow walk up the aisle toward a slightly puzzled Mr. Babbington. Her hands were folded demurely over her waist, in a long and blue dress, sheathed in matching gloves, and her hair was piled high on her head like an artful tray of black Russian bread rolls. A galaxy of tiny diamonds gleamed like fine lace around her neck.

Kirk, in his green satin dress tunic, trimmed in gold braid, tried not to smile as the old men turned and stared, in a very slow wave of recognition, their squinting gaze going back and forth, toward him, and again at the impossible beauty of his bride.

He seemed to fiddle with his pants-waist, reaching around back to make sure the glowing tunic was covering his utility belt, before marching up the aisle himself, not far behind the princess.

"We've come to be married," Allena said, barely able to look Babbington in the face, when she reached the lectern.

"We're in love," Kirk insisted, with comical delight, plainly hoping to incite the chief of counsel.

"Do you understand," Babbington began, making a clear show of his own incredulity, "that this man stands opposed to everything your father built up for Chilion, and everything he lived and died for?"

"I do," Allena said humbly, as though he'd questioned her understanding of the everlasting obligations of love and fealty and trust.

"And do you understand, Captain Kirk," Babbington said, his astonishment reaching almost operatic proportions, as all the old men on their benches leaned forward to see and hear. "Do you understand that you have reduced this world to ruins, and that our grand culture must be sworn to oppose you at every opportunity?"

"I do," Kirk said, with solemnity and a show of innocence that nearly equaled Allena's. With that, the captain reached under his tunic and produced a chrysalis of light: a huge green diamond, set in a nest of what appeared to be tiny rubies and emeralds, atop a polished silver ring. To the horror of everyone else in the cavern, he slipped it on her gloved finger and kissed her on the lips. His eyes returned to Babbington now, as if he had just swept all the poker chips to his end of the table.

Then, his communicator _beeped_, as she gently pulled away, and smiled. With a deferential nod, Kirk whipped out the little device and flipped open the gold mesh cover.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Scott."

"It's Sulu, sir," came the navigator's voice. "It's the Orions, they're early and targeting us now, Captain."

"I see," Kirk said quietly, his plans going wildly awry all of a sudden, or equally awry as Babbington's, but not wanting to spoil the moment. "Stand by to energize."

"Shields on automatic, sir," Sulu said, apologetically. So he was stuck down here, in the vipers' nest.

"Take good care of her, Sulu," Kirk said, still quietly, and closed his communicator, for what suddenly felt like the very last time. But, once again, he adopted his cool, confident expression, and turned to address the long benches of advisors.

"Gentlemen," Kirk began, with a hasty glance down at his boots, and then out, brashly at the dozens of annoyed, or impatient, or asleep old men. "When I… walked among you just now, my ship in orbit collected your life form readings… and beamed down signaling matter on to each and every one of you." (At least, he _hoped _that's what had happened, right before the Orions showed up.) "And at any moment of our choosing, we will be able to reach down and collect you with our dematerializing, transporting rays. Nothing you do can remove the molecular markers that have been placed in you, by my ship's engineer. And nothing you do now can change the fact—"

"We'll be swept up—we'll all be taken up," one of the old men said, staggering to his feet, overcome with religious amazement as he balanced on matching ebony canes, with ornate silver handles.

"Sit down, you fool," the old man next to him said loudly. But other men were slowly rising, too. "Swept up," they began whispering, looking up toward the sky in long-cherished confirmation. "Swept up!" It was strangely adorable, as their scowling old faces softened and filled with child-like wonder.

"Now," Kirk tried to resume, as more and more old men rose breathlessly to their feet, "as you may know, our matter-antimatter engines can take us from star to star in as little as a day, in some cases. Or, by the… unimaginable… power… of these two great opposites, these two great _contradictions_, crashing together, they can even alter the… flow of the energy rich plasma before it races down into the black holes in the region you call the Pocket." He daren't glance at Allena now, as she was probably aghast, as he went trampling all over the state religion. And he didn't want the added distraction, because he really didn't know what he was going to say next.

But he needn't have worried, as the old men were singing an old, old hymn, "Swept Up!" and tears were streaming down some of their faces, after their long, long wait.

"They've linked up with the computer on the burned ship, Mr. Scott," Chekov said, as the chief engineer returned from below decks. Everyone on the bridge of the _Enterprise _tried to steal a glance at the second Orion attack force approaching, at last, even as they prepared for battle. The red alert was still flashing, after the warning had been called several minutes earlier, and Orions were still refusing the _Enterprise' _hails.

"Aye," Scotty said quietly, taking the center seat from the navigator, and wondering if the Orions would really be in the mood to break off an attack, even after they found the computer had warned the first Orions not to race through the rays, to their doom. If the computer records were still intact at all.

"Gi' us a visual, Lieutenant," Scotty said, though he didn't turn to face Uhura directly.

"Aye, sir," she said, and now _two _ naked Orion slave girls were whispering back and forth, stretched out like cats on a sunny windowsill, on the command deck of the Orions' new lead vessel. One perfect female hologram was from the incoming command ship, Scotty supposed, and the other was the re-booted avatar of the dead one moored just beyond Chilion. And around these two phenomena, the green-skinned commander of the Orion flagship seemed amazed and a little breathless, though fierce in the glow of the blinking control panels.

"The Federation starship is now scanning the main control room," one naked hologram said, her long black hair weaving its way down her shoulders as she reclined by her "sister" on a long shelf. Most of the Orion crewmen looked up on hearing the news, almost guiltily, and a few of them even looked over their shoulders: as if they might catch sight of the _Enterprise_' spies in some corner, or behind another console.

Mr. Scott tried to look away politely, himself, at three-to-five second intervals. But, he had to admit the two holographic girls made a lovely pair, in a vaguely frightening way. He couldn't quite shake the notion that they'd just dive in through the viewscreen like ravenous banshees and tackle him the moment he got distracted.

As the two green ladies whispered back and forth, Scotty decided, the Orions were still downloading computer information from the dead ship the _Enterprise _had gone out to snag, on its uncontrolled flight toward Andromeda, and points beyond. He shook his head ruefully, imagining this second attack force was carefully trying to find any little sign of Federation complicity in the foolish, wasteful tragedy of their first attack force, seeking vengeance for the _Amphora_.

Long minutes passed as he watched the Orion crew, and the inevitable parallels began to emerge: one green crewman seemed to be the piratical commander; another, his navigator, was consumed by the readings from the helm; and was either the weapons or engineering officer. Others dithered around these crucial officers, almost as though they were perplexed by the readouts on different blockish machines in their tight, darkened space… and then there were those two, amazing women, smiling and talking inaudibly into one another's ear, their green skin glistening as their dark eyes flashed this way and that, like twin gossiping goddesses of irresistible temptation. How the crewmen's wives dealt with that, he could'na say.

Occasionally the Orion officers would try to beseech the naked holograms for their attention, as the attack force raced toward Chilion, but with no result. One girl, from the dead ship, simply kept whispering into the other's ear as the transmission of data dragged on and on; as their breasts heaved up and down in an imitation of life, and occasionally they'd change their pose (apparently to keep the attention of the brutish men). Still, sensors showed they had the _Enterprise _"marked" as a hostile target, though they seemed to dally toward war.

"Mr. Scott!" It was Sulu, in front of him, throwing a switch that wiped away the image of the two ladies, to switch to an image of the Orion attack force, on the bridge viewscreen. Fierce, computer enhanced, beams of gamma radiation were firing against the lead Orion vessel, which was beginning to go dark from the onslaught. Navigation lights and the glow from the few windows on board flickered and then just went out, and it looked like the command ship was beginning to drift out of formation.

"Aye, it's those Chilion reflectors," Scotty knew immediately, referring to the network of power stations back and forth between the Pocket and this world. "Target nearest reflector Mr. Hadley, and fire when ready."

"Aye, sir," the helmsman nodded, still remarkably stone-faced for a human being, especially considering the _Enterprise _was now coming to the rescue of its would-be attackers.

"But won't that cut power to the planet?" Chekov wondered, from the science station.

"They're all underground now, lad. And if it's hell down there for them, it's only premature," Scotty said, with a quiet, level certainty.

"But what about the captain," Uhura wondered, saying what was on everyone's mind already.

"He'll be fine, lass," Scotty said, gruffly. Then, more whimsically, "he likes the taste of justice. How are our shields, Mr. Sulu?"

"Ninety-percent overall, Mr. Scott."

"Reflector targeted, phasers go," Hadley said, holding down the communicator button to phaser control, below decks. The view of the alien attack force and the wanton, dust-shrouded Chilion, dipped mostly below the lower edge of the viewscreen, as the ship lined up its shot.

Blue-white fire roared out from the under-side of the main saucer section, and what was still to be seen of the Orion ships seemed frail and cold below the ruthless beams. Then, as if nothing had happened, the searing light was gone, along with the jarring roar of power that had rung through the starship. The _Enterprise _returned to its face-off with the Orions, though there seemed to be a moment of calculation, as things quieted down a bit.

"Gi' us another look at that lovely pair, for an old man, would ye?"

But it was too late. When the image of the Orion command deck returned, it was nearly dark. The gamma ray blast had broken through their shields, and now their own computers were dark. Needless to say, the two slave-girl images were nowhere to be seen.

"Meester Scott!"

"Aye, now they're doin' it to us," Scotty snarled. "Target and destroy, Mr. Hadley." Was it going to be like this all day? How many reflecting stations were out there, anyway?

"Another one, sir," Sulu nodded, in grim confirmation of a third gamma ray reflection.

"Get us clear, Sulu. If we keep moving, maybe we'll find the mote in their eye."

"Aye, sir."

"They're trying to nail us down, sir," Chekov said, and with the touch of a button, he took control of the main viewscreen, showing flickering gamma ray reflections that focused in on the _Enterprise_ and the Orion ships—one by one at first, and then two by two.

"Going to full impulse power," Sulu said, and the planet began to shrink very quickly, and their adversaries with it.

"Warp power, stand by," Scotty said, though he couldn't imagine their reflectors could focus on them, moving at full impulse. "Phasers target for minimal damage." For the senior commander, the taste of mercy seemed bitter now.

"Standing by," Sulu said, checking the engine status.

"Now targeting four reflectors, make that nine," Hadley said, finally showing some grim satisfaction at the helm. "Fire at will."

"Keptin!" It was Chekov again, in a moment of confusion. "Mr. Scott—the planet—"

And from that dusty ruin came an ocean rocket thrust: a golden thread at this distance, but billowing against the Orion force, to make things doubly-hot for the _Enterprise._


	15. Chapter 15

_The Coils of Orion_ by Richard T. Green

**Chapter Seventeen**

The ship began throwing blue-white spears of light in all directions, in a phaser barrage that lasted for about ten seconds, and twisting again like a sounding whale, rising from the waves to make half its shots. And though the regular computer noise and status reports were still going back and forth, as always, it seemed as quiet as dawn for just that moment when the shooting finally stopped. In the command chair, Scotty's eyes were smiling as he imagined the barons of Chilion feeling the first frigid wind of space, deep underground, their power finally cut off.

"Attack force approaching at warp-point-eight," Sulu said, purely on the strength of the instrument readings, as they were now far beyond the planet's orbit. At this distance, if they'd gone any faster, the Orions would likely have shot right past them.

"What do they want with us," Scotty sighed, his mouth beginning to pull this way and that, at the ridiculous misunderstanding that would end in some unknown number of deaths.

"Their flagship is still back at Chilion, sir," Sulu reported. "Looks like she's lost." He touched a light-panel on the controls and they could see a magnification showing what the brief blast of radiation, and the opportunistic rocket flare from below, had done: turning head over tail, the command ship looked like a flattened cinder, silently trailing spirals of dying sparks.

"Well, I don't like the looks of that," Scotty said, with a grim playfulness, as the attack force came back on the viewscreen. "Open hailing frequency," he said, though they hadn't responded at all, so far.

"Hailing frequency open, Mr. Scott," Uhura said quietly.

"This is Commander Montgomery Scott of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_," he began with blank forcefulness. "Your ships were targeted by the planet below, and we have destroyed their offensive capability for further gamma ray attack, both for our sake, and your own. However, the planet resorted to another form of attack, as ye know, through a weapon buried deep under water."

Once again, they were able to get a picture of the bridge of the approaching lead ship. The Orions were listening, but didn't seem quelled by Mr. Scott's presentation of the facts.

"We propose to return to the planet to rebuke them properly," Scotty added, even as Mr. Sulu and Mr. Hadley exchanged nervous glances, and the distance shrank between them and the remaining Orion forces.

"Closing at one million kilometers," Sulu said, quietly.

"To show our good faith," Scotty said, sounding more and more like a Sunday school teacher in his own ears, "we will return to Chilion now and fire a torpedo attack on the offensive target."

At that, Sulu kept one hand on a tactical program he'd set up on the helm board, and the other began tapping in a return course, corresponding to the ocean rocket thruster, slowly carried away with the planet's rotation. Something between the right and left halves of his brain gave out a little laugh or shriek at the ridiculous complexity of it all, though he wasn't sure which.

"Take us right over their heads, Mr. Sulu," Scotty said, contemptuous of Orion pride. "Warp point-nine."

"Warp point-nine," Sulu said, and in a flash they went skating right over the approaching sortie, which slid beneath them like pale ripples on a sunlit lake.

"Mr. Hadley, I don't want to get any closer than necessary," the commander added, as the helmsman kept his fingers poised on the photon torpedo links.

"Approaching maximum range," Hadley said, as though he were easing a sailboat into its slip.

"Target and destroy," Scotty said, and though it seemed like a long shot, he held a bitter certainty in his voice, as they watched the dust-covered planet grow on screen.

"Fire torpedoes," Hadley said, without fanfare. That familiar, echoing _'bang!' _sounded through the ship, in three pairs, as horrific blobs of green light shot out from the lower half of the _Enterprise_' saucer section and arced with an eerie intelligence around the horizon of Chilion, toward the offending thruster site. He could only imagine the blinding lights roaring down through the moon-dust, like banshees into the sea. And multiple flares of light, over the next several moments, seemed to indicate the torpedoes had done their job.

"Status of the Orion vessels, Mr. Chekov," Scotty said, still grimacing slightly. At the science station, the Russian lieutenant turned toward the center of the bridge.

"They have turned, but at station-keeping."

"Aye, they want to watch us doin' their own dirty work," the chief engineer said, almost to himself. The history of the Orions and the Federation had been marred by many disputes, and somehow the central issue always seemed to be Orion pride, despite their piratical ways. Or so it seemed to him.

"I think I can get a visual of the target, Mr. Scott," Uhura said, from behind him.

"On screen, lass."

And there it was, the great hexagonal ocean, flickering from small to medium to large on the main viewer: a horrendous gash like the parting of the Red Sea right across the middle, through which the waters rushed into the bowels of that earth. Scotty realized immediately that he could have done the job with fewer torpedoes but, in such cases, it was generally better to come on too strong rather than too weak. Nevertheless, the white borders of the ocean were surprisingly intact, in spite of the power of six torpedoes. A strangled stream of black smoke and gray steam poured up through the cascading watery lips as the machinery deep below collapsed.

"That ought to put their minds at ease," Scotty sighed, as the big screen image wavered and returned to a view of the Orion ships.

"They're approaching, Mr. Scott, in attack mode," Hadley noted.

_Spoke too soon_, Scotty told himself. Now he could see the alien ships coming in for a roaring pass between _Enterprise _and Chilion.

"Phasers standing by," the helmsman said quietly, knowing he would sound over-eager.

"Tell them we'll put a stop to any hostilities with irrevocable force," Scotty snarled, and behind him Lieutenant Uhura grimaced slightly, but opened a channel and began warning off the squadron.

"Targeting complete," Hadley said, growing slightly more confident of his reading of the senior officer.

"Fire across their bows, Mr. Hadley," Scotty said, without any trace of pleasure.

And then there was another dazzling burst, like infinitely long, straightened beams of lightning: this time shooting downward as the ships raced toward them, and a series of flashes struck from _Enterprise_, ahead of most of the Orion force, and then each behind the previous craft, in succession. Perhaps alarmingly, the final warning rays of the staccato bursts barely missed the last few craft in the boomerang-shaped formation.

"They're dropping fusion bombs, Mr. Scott," Chekov warned, from his right.

"Well, they dinna want to come all this way for nothing," Scotty said with renewed sarcasm. "Imagine livin' in your own little world of petty wrath and dreams of vengeance," he added, and then stopped. "Huh! Imagine a good Scotsman sayin' a thing like that!"

"All right," he said, after a very brief pause, and a change of gears. "We warned them, but they did it anyway. Mr. Sulu, get us a little wiggle room, out ahead of them. Mr. Hadley, target their weaponry; fire phasers when ready."

Both men responded, saying "Aye, sir."

The great starship _blipped _into warp drive and emerged again a few million miles beyond the fleet of smaller ships. Then, the alien attack force split like nine-pins to avoid the very obvious confrontation.

"Target the half heading back toward the planet," Scotty said, in a moment of cold inspiration.

And there went the phasers, nearly scattered but following the apparent trajectories of that half of the Orion engagement. As soon as the searing blue beams had struck through the Orion shields and jostled the ships from their courses, though, he began to think he might have made a mistake. And whenever he felt like that, it seemed as though he were holding ice cubes in the aching palms of each hand, or the reins of an untrustworthy fate. If Captain Kirk or Mr. Spock were there, he would have had to shrug it off, but now the heaviness of command threatened, for a moment, to crush his resourcefulness.

Suppressive fire never gave anyone that ringing feeling of reward or retribution. But he'd sent the message again and again to cease hostilities, targeting the power reflectors, and then the ground thruster, and finally the purely symbolic attack on the little ships sweeping back toward Chilion. And, somehow, the whole experience was even more hollow than any everyday peacekeeping among belligerents. But, gradually, the whole problem came into focus in an entirely new way: he recalled the foolish pride of the Chilions themselves and how they didn't back off, though they were caught red-handed with the dying _Amphora_; nor when their prince had died when a floating tower had lost its magical power. Nor did they even bother to change their hearts when the very moon itself cracked deep inside, and plowed across their world. Could no one admit they'd done _anything_ wrong anymore? Let alone admit they might have only _been _wrong? How could things have come to this mad pass?

Then his mind began to move faster again, as Mr. Hadley was reciting the phaser reserves, and Mr. Sulu, the changing positions of the other half of the Orion force. If we could get all the other ships and neutralize them, Scotty reasoned, we could get the captain back and maybe, once and for all, those counselors who seemed to be running the show down there too. But now he'd smacked the hornets' nest, and the rest of the Orions would soon be after them.

"Stand by, transporter room," he said, as the viewscreen changed to a starboard view of those other ships, maneuvering around for their counter.

"We have his signal, bridge," Lt. Kyle's voice came.

"As quick as you can manage, Mr. Kyle," Scotty said, and snapped off the comm link.

"Closing to firing range in ten seconds," Mr. Sulu said, though there was an edge to his voice.

"Stand by to warp out, evasive maneuvers," the senior officer said flatly. He waited a generous three seconds, and tapped the captain's armrest again.

"Transporter room," he said, asking without bothering to complete the question.

"We had him for a moment, sir," Kyle said, his voice rising in spite of his years of experience, "but we lost the signal."

"Mr. Sulu, turn and fire on attack force," Scotty said, his mind already back to the problem at hand.

The stars and Chilion flew past on the screen, and phaser fire scattered into the distance.

"Scan the area Mr. Chekov," Scotty said. "Show the Orion ships between us and Chilion."

"On screen," the acting science officer said. A series of lines showed the recent trails of Orion vessels that had swept back toward the planet.

"Uhura, any signal from the captain," Scotty said.

"Nothing since he signaled for transport, Mr. Scott," she said.

Now he was flummoxed, and dropped the weight of his shoulders on the back of the captain's chair, pursing his lips, and watching the Orion ships tumble over each other in an almost childish, triumphant-looking display. There was nothing for the _Enterprise _to do, but face them down, in silent waiting.

"They've got him, sir," Lt. Kyle said, with an apologetic air, as he and Mr. Scott stood over the transporter console, a few minutes later. The steady hum of the machinery filled the room, even to the empty chamber where the captain should have appeared ten minutes ago.

"Aye," Scotty nodded. "I don't know how they did it, but they did," he sighed, looking at a replay of the transporter signal, a bright line on the big round display, had vanished somehow. The Orion ships had been passing right through at about the same time. He couldn't come up with any other explanation. And, as brutish and dramatic as they seemed to be, their technology still held a few surprises.

"And we don't know which ship he's on," Kyle protested.

"Well, he's on one of the ones with no weapons," Scotty said. "Or, at least, he was, at first."

The boatswain's whistle sounded on the top of the transporter console.

"Scott here," he said, twisting a frustrated thumb against the oval light pad.

"We're getting a rough signal from Mr. Spock now, sir," Uhura said, through the little speaker grill, as though preparing him for an awkward experience.

"Pipe it down here, Lieutenant." He looked again at the transporter controls in dismay.

There was an ominous rumble, as if another gamma ray had rolled across the sector. But a moment later the Vulcan's level voice could be heard reciting:

"…From seven-three-nine-oh-one, please note that overall parameter opacity is not exceeded by the previously noted factors of L, or M, or N. However, if the 'f' variable is maintained across the equations pertaining to sub-dimensional dilation, in which case the usual rule for sub-critical wavelengths may be recognized in rational numbers through the conversion of sub-g."

"Ach," Scotty rolled his eyes. "He's havin' it off with the computer." He clicked-off the intercom. And, as he walked out into the curving corridor, he said, half over his shoulder, "keep an eye on 'em, Mr. Kyle. If they start beaming between ships, I want to know it."

"Yes, Mr. Scott," Kyle said, relieved to have some idea of how to deal with the dismal situation. For the rest of his shift, he dared not take his eyes from the instruments.

"Open a channel to the Orions, Uhura," Scotty said, as he came marching out of the turbolift, onto the bridge.

"Aye, Mr. Scott."

By the time he'd sat down in the center seat, like an angry warrior chieftain, Uhura had nodded to go ahead.

"This is Commander Montgomery Scott, of the Starship _Enterprise_. You have sixty seconds to return our captain, unharmed, or we will destroy all your ships. That is all."

There was a sudden coolness in the air, as if every officer around him had taken in a quiet gasp.

"Arm phasers, target on automatic," Scotty said, with the usual grim certainty. "First, of course, I want the ships that still have their major weapons systems."

"Targeted, Mr. Scott," Sulu said, carefully, as if he did not want to touch-off a premature explosion.

"Time."

"Forty-five seconds," Hadley noted.

" Uhura?"

"No response, sir."

"Meester Scott, I think I have a life-form reading!" Chekov said, from the science station.

"Aye, they're liftin' their skirt a bit, for their own good. You can spare that ship, helm, till we get further word."

"Yes sir," Sulu agreed, with a sigh of relief.

"Thirty seconds," Hadley said, after a bit.

"Everybody thinks they have the upper hand, till they want their refugee status," Scotty ruminated, in the captain's chair, talking about the Orions or the Chilions, or both.

"Bridge," came Kyle's voice, from the transporter room.

"What is it, Mr. Kyle," Scotty said.

"It looks like they're activating all their transporters. I think they're going to energize the captain, and try to give a piece of him to every ship!"

"Fire phasers now, Mr. Hadley," the chief engineer said, as flat and brash as could be.

Dazzling blue rays swept out at the first group of ships, that hadn't been targeted in the initial attack. The Orions began slinging off into warp drive, but it was too late, and most were left hanging like the frozen remains of high-power bullets, twisted in the dark a moment later.

"Now firing on the second group, saving the one," Hadley said, as if in a contest for blandness with Mr. Scott. Before he had finished speaking, the _Enterprise _had turned about and was firing bolts of near-white energy at a chaotic swarm of vessels. A practiced eye could see strange little interruptions and omissions of light in the phaser-barrage, here and there, as the ship's computer-targeting kept blasting around the ship they hoped contained one human life-form, though that one "non-phaser" tunnel kept swinging around in space, like the one dark string in a sky full of kites.

It was pretty obvious, ten or twenty seconds later, which was the one they were trying to save. All the others lay in space like the slag from a steel mill, or the burnt lumps of coal from the sidings of some old railroad track. Just the one ship glinted anymore out there, as swathes of gamma beams flickered beyond, on the viewscreen, through the make-shift barrier of all Lysander's moons.

"She's turning to fight, Mr. Scott," Sulu said, not entirely surprised, but not pleased by a long shot.

"Target weapons," Scotty said, feeling a headache coming on. "Uhura, I want a boarding party ready to go."

"Aye, sir." Over his shoulder, she began calling below decks to security and sickbay.

"Can ye give me a view inside," he wondered.

"Svitching," Chekov said, pulling signals together from Uhura's left, along the sweeping ring of computer controls. The starry viewscreen image rippled and dissolved.

The scene on board the one remaining Orion craft was pandemonium as green-skinned, piratical-looking officers shouted into their computer boards, and the naked lady from the computer recited damage reports on the other ships, all in ruins along the planet's sweeping path.

Mr. Scott sat back in the center seat with a disdainful look on his face. Not because he had never known panic in space before; he certainly had. But now he wondered if the Orions would go one step further, and perhaps gamble their last few lives for the sake of one hostage.

"Tractor beam," he said, relishing the moment, as the Orions were jolted by the _Enterprise_' grasp. And so it had come full circle: they had salvaged one dead ship to keep the peace; and now, after a horrible battle, they took the very last ship for their trouble.

Captain James T. Kirk seemed to be awake, but floating in a dark sea, weightless under a dark sky. The last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Allena, on the planet; and then this. Was it death? Or had he only landed in one of the great hexagonal oceans, floating in the water, under a shroud of moon dust as Chilion hurtled through the dark?

He tried to sit up or move around, but could not. And this led him to wonder if he was still in some kind of transporter stasis, and that his feeling of being a whole person might just be something his mind conjured up, a sort of default setting for a dematerialized self. He might just be in bits and pieces spread out on a scaffolding of energy beams, to materialize on the pads inside the _Enterprise _at any moment.

Then a naked, green-skinned Orion woman appeared before him, and he knew something else was up. As she drew nearer, he caught a whiff of words or a visual image, or both, of the surgeon general of Starfleet, from some kind of secure subspace transmission: just a quick wisp of his words running backwards and forwards at the same time. Meanwhile, almost independent of his voice, the image of the general, like seeing a vaguely familiar image through twisted ropes of glass, was stretched or squeezed.

"We understand, now," the Orion slave girl seemed to be saying, or thinking, to him.

"I don't…" he tried to say, trying to lift his heavy head.

"The Federation is not responsible," she said, or thought. To Jim Kirk, it was not as comforting an absolution as it might have been, and his mouth tried to work in some conciliatory manner, though no sound came out as she hovered above him.

He guessed the Orions had intercepted some kind of medical transmission. But, 'something' wasn't the Federation's fault? Or, they were two different things, one medical, the intercepted message, and one political, the misunderstanding over the Mahlon interference? It was too overwhelming, and he tried to close his eyes, but the images stayed exactly the same, the twisting ropes of glass that stretched the subspace transmission, bending behind her, partially visible through the black curls of her long hair.

"It shall be a sign of our good will," she was telling him with her thoughts, though her voice was flat and cold, as her cat-like body floated above him, like the enigmatic figurehead on an old wooden warship, about to smash his little boat to bits on some dark sea.

And then he could feel the beginning of a cold pain, down between his legs that told him he was quite fully materialized, but unable to move. It was a rude, cutting pain that made the air vomit up out of his belly, as his flesh was opened and stretched and turned inside out; and her dark eyes burrowed deep into his own; and the pain roared up toward the top of his skull, and beyond all understanding. Of course, he tried not to scream.

And then, the next thing he knew, he was back on the _Enterprise_.

**Chapter Eighteen**

The air, and the light, became thick with meanings: as if signaling hope, or mystical impossibility. Other windows, and other bars or shafts of light, and a shapeless, heavy glowing crisscrossed around Allena, as beams of joy and sorrow and alien structure and weight plunged through her dreams, even deep underground here on Chilion.

And one great glowing beam was all the meaning of everything that she had been taught, and one glowing beam was the weight of her obligations, and the revelation of terrible wrongs; and one glowing beam was for her to pass through and one glowing beam was, in turn, passing through her as though she didn't exist in any real way, whatsoever.

And she saw the weary elders, stooped and wavering, singing their songs of faith, and the moons of many desires rising over her planet like a rocky hand and, though it seemed rather sad to her, she could see how it was closing up the sky, like her father's hand, reaching into her crib. And then the rocky, closed hand became like the center of the galaxy, or the beginning of everything: a cluster of brilliant suns crowding the sky, and the desert turned to gently billowing grass.

It filled her with a strange confidence, and a kind of calmness: knowing there was a structure beyond the structure of foolish glory and pride and it all flew behind her as soon as she'd recognized it.

And though, as she rose from her underground bed, everything was just seemingly plain and normal again, it was still magical. But also abnormally arbitrary to her, as if the universe were at once comical and old fashioned and quaint, all at once—where it had been fearsome and vain and foolish and overwhelming just the night before.

"Message from the planet, Mr. Scott," Uhura was saying, though Scotty himself was still absorbed in a kind of odd daydream himself.

"Secure from red alert," he said, exhaling for the first time in what seemed like years. "On screen, lieutenant."

And there was Allena, looking strangely pleased and confident, on the viewer.

"Oh, I was hoping to find Captain Kirk," she said, seeing the chief engineer on her own screen, as she sat in the underground communications room, where the air seemed to buzz with transmitters and ozone and too many long nights of artificial air.

"The captain is… well, he's… not feeling well at the moment, ma'am," Scotty said, not wanting to violate protocol, nor the intimacy he presumed existed between the two. He'd have been a little more strategically vague, but the Orion ships had fled now, once the phasers had done their work, and the transporter had plucked the captain out of danger, and the medics had rushed him to sickbay.

"Oh," she said, surprised and yet not worried, given the seemingly unshakable nature of the middle-aged man in the red shirt. "May I come up and see him?"

"Aye, if ye'd like," Scotty supposed, finally truly awkward, after being so certain in battle. He was still thinking about beams of light, too, a strange momentary flash in his mind, in a fugue of anti-consciousness: beams of light, crossing every which-way, glowing and existing and not, all once. It had been like everything was smothered in a layer of golden honey, or—well, he couldn't explain it. It was all there, more real than anything else for a moment, and then…

"I shall be ready, then," she said, and sat back in the chair they'd given her when she walked into the transmission room, in the middle of the night.

"Aye, Scott out," he said, and reached for the button on the arm-rest, feeling glad to know he wouldn't be sitting in the command chair too much longer. "Transporter room, one to beam up from the planet, per last communication."

"Well," Dr. McCoy blinked his arctic blue eyes, "he's half asleep, and…"

"I can come back," Allena said gently, not wanting to upset things, and making it plain she was as observant of the delicacy of the situation as anyone could possibly be.

"Well, no, that's all right," McCoy said, his brow still furrowed. He'd patched him up and begun the usual stem-cell regenerative process, after some touch-up micro-surgery, and now the healing just had to run its course, over the next few weeks. And, besides, Jim Kirk would probably be stuck in bed for a few days, anyway, after all of that. Probably not the great goodbye he'd planned…

So, with an extreme quiet, as if they were sneaking up on a box of new-born kittens, and not the great starship commander, the ship's surgeon and the space princess crept into the ward-room, with its twenty beds: some draped-off, most empty; and Jim Kirk, looking barely awake on one of the random pads, under a shimmering blanket.

"Don't get up," she said, with the wave of a hand, as she crouched along-side, and the doctor hastily grabbed a nearby chair for her from across the room.

He smiled that awkward, pain-killer smile, looking down toward her, as she sat by his knees, folding her arms as if she were settling in for the long haul.

"I suppose Uncle Brax is in for a long, space-going voyage," she sighed.

"I suppose," Kirk sighed, his mouth dry. He supposed the chief advisor would already be in a guarded cabin, just above engineering, in the "neck" of the starship.

"It's too bad, really," she shrugged, crossing her ankles and knitting her fingers together, in their casual white gloves, that matched the trim on her jacket and shoes. He couldn't help laughing a little, at how everything always matched up for her, in wardrobe and in life.

"Well, don't smile about it," she complained, comically. "I wouldn't want to be in his shoes," she shivered. "Probably he'll have some sort of giant, electrified clamps attached to his head, like a vise or something," she added, her hands suddenly holding a huge, invisible monkey-wrench against her temples, as a demonstration.

"Not… way it works," Kirk said, tiredly, but very grateful she was there, even if it was just a dream.

"Well, it should be at least as bad as what you've had to go through," she said, rolling her eyes at the crude Orion surgery, and trying not to glance mid-way down the blanket.

"S'okay," he half-nodded, reassuringly.

"I can't imagine," she shook her head. "I mean, I can't imagine what you'll be putting your poor crew through, as you recover, in the next few weeks," she elaborated, just to be clear, that she certainly wasn't worried him, of all people. And then, all at once, she became ridiculously animated again. "First you'll have the hormones of a teenager, and then a very young man, and then!" It was too much to imagine, and she just put her hands out as if to block the image of a field of wild colts, smashing around a canyon all at once, gametes gone mad, kicking every great cliff down to rubble. "It's a good thing I'll be here to help reduce the terrible stress and strain of a starship captain, growing up all over again!"

"Gametes," he mumbled, still inclined to laugh.

"You know," she said, changing the subject entirely, and staring off into the blank wall across from them, between beds. "I had the most wonderful feeling when I woke up this morning." She glanced at him, meaningfully, and he seemed to be staring at the same spot, far away, across the room.

"As though there were a structure beneath all the… structure," she added, not wanting to stoop to untrustworthy math and physics.

"Yes, Pope Allena?" he managed to say, though his mouth was rather dry.

"'Your grace,' is perfectly satisfactory," she said, with infinite gentleness.

"Mmph," he said, trying not to drift off to sleep.

"I don't know," she continued, as if luxuriating in the dreamy beams of light again, going every which-way, before she'd ever even opened her eyes in her cabin. "It was as if everything had sort of merged together, and every bit of fear or anger of frustration had just washed out of me."

"Mm," he said, glad to hear something good was coming out of all of this.

"I mean, I'm certainly not the most angry person I know," she blinked, as if he'd gotten the wrong impression entirely. For a moment, or an hour, there was just the thumping sound of the heart and pulse monitor over his head.

"A long, space-going voyage," she repeated, though not entirely about Mr. Babbington, now. She supposed he might be the most angry person she knew, now that Malcolm was gone.

"He'll probably end up running the whole penal colony, Uncle Brax, I mean," she said, with a grudging admiration.

Jim Kirk shifted slightly, as if to show he was about to fall asleep.

"That might suit him very well, don't you think?" she added, with an unexpected sense of insight.

"All right, young lady," McCoy returned to the ward room, "visiting hours are over."

"Oh, well, there you go," she nodded, and kissed the captain lightly on the lips as she got up. Then she leaned in, even more privately. Jim Kirk looked up, with a kind of mild bewilderment.

"Don't be surprised if you see me around here again, in the very near future," she whispered, leaning down for a quick kiss on his forehead. "I've told Mr. Exmoor and Hulda, my maid, just to carry on as if everything were normal, no matter what, down on the planet. But don't worry, I wouldn't want to be a stone around your neck forever—you can just drop me off at the nearest Federonian space-base. One of your yeomen told me that'll be in about three months. You should be fully recovered, by then! Besides," she added, stepping back, and smoothing her skirt, "we Chilions really can't be tied down forever, to any bright shining star, you know. Not even tied to a starship captain! Maybe not even for three months! You'll be healed up, and a grown man again, and we'll probably both be sick to death of each other by then!"

"Mm." He looked this way and that, as if he were overwhelmed by the ship, and the whole ordeal, but still managed the wink of the eye.

"You're right," she nodded, understandingly. "A lot of drama: it only makes people old, doesn't it?"

And with that, she kissed him again, on the cheek, pausing and hovering like a beautiful, gentle parade balloon overhead. And then she was out the door, through the doctor's office, with an automatic little wave of her royal, gloved hand.

When he awoke again, a moment later, there was good old Mr. Spock, standing at a respectful distance at the foot of the bed, slender and pensive as always. Farther away, in the door to the office, stood old Mr. Exmoor.

"Dr. McCoy says you are doing well," the first officer said, as if gently testing the veracity of another one of the physician's notoriously untrustworthy conclusions.

"Yes," Kirk said, now able to speak more clearly.

"I have relieved Mr. Scott, after the ship collected me, and Mr. Exmoor, from the Chilion asteroids, and Starfleet has granted the princess Allena asylum status. The collapsed stars, incidentally, have regained their invisible horizons, with the cessation of Mahlon interference, putting an end to the scourge of the wheeling gamma rays. However," Spock said, looking puzzled, "I am not entirely sure I was successful."

"Oh?"

The Vulcan commander fell silent, as if embarrassed, almost like Mr. Sulu, when he first laid out the concept of the "energy flume" that allowed the plasma harvest. Finally, Spock spoke.

"In attempting to fathom the Mahlon deep space monitors, which Mr. Scott encountered, it seemed that I was very briefly able to integrate every universe into one whole, or matching set of parameters, despite the sweeping complexity of the mathematics. As, perhaps, the event horizons were shut down to their normal range. As if some sort of inter-dimensional fine-tuning were taking place. As illogical as that may seem." Now the Vulcan seemed to be feeling ridiculous, with his explanations.

"Hm," Kirk said, wondering, barely looking at the ceiling overhead.

"You may have noticed," Spock said, "a kind of inter-spatial over-flow, or…" But words failed him, as if he were unpracticed in the human art of hinting around for some kind of affirmation. But the captain was drifting off again and, with a deferential little nod, Spock quietly left the ward room.

This left the two captains in sickbay together, the old actor and the young patient.

"You know," Exmoor began, stepping forward gingerly, and half-sitting on the exam bed next to Kirk's own, "I really can't say this _exact_ thing has ever happened to me before."

Kirk could barely muster the concentration to keep up his end of the conversation, as if Exmoor were out there in the dark, at the other end of a long, long road.

"I just wanted to thank you," the older man said, realizing the captain was still in the twilight of his surgery, and not to be taxed.

"For what," Jim Kirk said, his mouth feeling very dry again, as he tried to look to the side, where the elder Chilion sat, still managing a kind of princely elegance of his own.

"You knocked us off course," Exmoor said, with a smile, his finger spiraling around in the air, as his whole planet had done, for the last few decades. "But now we're flying much straighter than before. Thanks to you."

"Oh." He really just wanted to sleep now.

"Too bad about Mr. Babbington," Exmoor sighed. "The rich and powerful ones never put up a fight, in the real world. They always just put up their hands, and get taken away, to fight another day. Not like the feelies at all… Anyway," Exmoor said, after another winning smile, "I couldn't pass up the opportunity to say goodbye, and wish you well."

"Thanks," Kirk said.

"And don't feel bad," the actor said, leaning in closer, and more privately, lest any passerby overhear. "I always get the girl," he said, with greatest deference and confidentiality.

The captain didn't know what to make of that, but he managed to open his eyes again, and saw Exmoor had already gotten out in the doctor's office, and was offering a courtly hand to Allena, who rose from a chair, by the desk and computer. He thought she'd disappeared magically, perhaps a whole day ago. But now, it seemed she really was there, and gave Kirk a little wink through the doorway, before she was gone. But, before he finally closed his eyes, it seemed to him that he saw a cloud of iridescent dust, as if from a moth's wing, billowing faintly off her shoulder as Exmoor took her out. A huge, red-shirted security man stood waiting to escort them back to the transporter room, and to Chilion.

"I shall be on the bridge, Doctor," Spock said, now that their visitors had left, and James T. Kirk had finally closed his eyes. But the Vulcan almost seemed to sigh, with a human sense of relief, as he passed McCoy at his little desk.

"What about the planet," McCoy said, as Spock was literally caught in the doorway, by his words. Crewmen walked past in the curving corridor, as they would at almost any moment of the day, on the USS _Enterprise_.

"The Chilions have been reduced to such a low level of circumstance, literally as well as figuratively," the Vulcan said, "that our advisors should be able to help them re-build in a more sustainable way, with far superior technology; and far fewer consequences to the region around them."

"And far fewer vain objections," the doctor nodded, with a sense of triumph in his voice. "Though it may be years before we know if we really changed anything. Isn't that's what's bothering you, Mr. Spock?" The doctor put down his writing stylus and leaned back, to see if the Vulcan would indulge in a moment of simple human doubt.

"Not that. But, for a moment," the first officer said, more quietly now, "it seemed I had actually mastered the Mahlon technology. However, that, too, was merely coincidence: as if all the universes had all come out of hiding, all at once, in a momentary union: to suit their own purposes."

McCoy regarded the Vulcan with the same acerbic stare as the bleached, alien skulls that stretched along the shelf between them.

"Do you expect me to believe," the doctor said intently, "all that nonsense about 'whole other existences,' _infinite_ numbers of them, just a hairsbreadth out of reach, but somehow overlapping, and still totally beyond our senses, Mr. Spock?"

"The mathematics are essentially cohesive and consistent, Doctor."

"Then you, my friend," McCoy said, sighing and going back to his reports to Starfleet, "are the biggest romantic of us all."

The Vulcan could only pause, looking faintly surprised, to consider the possibility. And, though the doctor never saw it, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment as he turned to go. The corridor beyond sickbay flowed back and forth with officers and crewmen, this way and that, as he made his way around to the nearest lift, and back to the bridge again.


End file.
